Another Love, Another Lifetime
by Marianne Brandon
Summary: The sequel to A Piercing Light of Hope. What else can I say without giving away too much?
1. Prologue

**A/N: Here begins the sequel to "A Piercing Light of Hope," for which I have a vague outline that will probably twist and turn and completely change, just like my other story. If you are checking this out without having first read "Piercing"...well, I don't recommend it. Read the first one, first!**

**This prologue was a recent idea, and has more to do with my first story than this sequel. But Mominator/Barb, your last review was the inspiration for this prologue, so I dedicate it to you! I hope everyone enjoys it as much as the first. I'll do my best to give it a plot and make sure it's not boring. ;-) Read on...**

Disclaimer: I don't own _Phantom of the Opera_. Well, I own my own copy of it, but...I mean...I don't own the rights to it...Oh, you know what I mean.

* * *

"If I absolutely cannot bring myself to believe you, I'm sure you would understand," Francois Gautier said to the young man standing in his office. The chap's light brown eyes were wide open, yet seemed dull with the weight of the news he carried. His normally orderly, dark blonde hair was disheveled, as was his expensive tailored suit. In fact, it was torn and filthy. Even his small moustache seemed somehow out of order. 

"M. Gautier, he killed the inspector! He tried to kill me, look…" Henri Laroche lifted his chin and indicated the darkening bruises where strong hands had grasped his throat, and burns where a rope had ensnared him.

Gautier frowned and leaned forward at his desk, looking up at Henri. "And I am to take responsibility for this too, I assume?"

"No, messieur, I did not mean that. But your daughter! _Mon dieu_, do you care nothing for her?" He slammed his palms on the desktop and stared down at the older man. "I thought you might be a bit interested to discover she's been living under this building for months with that madman. Right…under…your…nose."

Gautier narrowed his eyes, his hands gripping the chair's arms. "Did I not tell you she has made her choices and must be left to them?"

"Yes, but—"

"M. Henri, this obsession of yours concerning my daughter has gone far enough. I have had to deal with D'Aubigne's body being found down there, and now this inspector _you _brought in to satisfy _your _own curiosity? Soon the gendarmes will be crawling all over this place like rats and cockroaches, and the _Opera Populaire _will be out of business _again!_"

"But messieur—"

"Give it up, Henri! If she told you to leave her alone, then do it!"

"But you don't believe me."

Gautier got up from his seat to move around to the front of his desk. He stood close to Henri, his hands clasped behind his back. "There is no proof that the _Opera Ghost_—in whom I must honestly say I still refuse to believe—is responsible for Marcel D'Aubigne's death. Other than that incident, Henri, can you give me an example of how he has disrupted anyone's life or wreaked any havoc upon this opera house…until this morning, when he killed the inspector, as you so claim?"

Henri frowned, his eyebrows coming together slightly, and looked away; he deeply pondered what Gautier was asking him, and was distressed by the conclusion to which he came.

"Messieur, I…I cannot. Not since you've come into ownership."

"Then perhaps you should assume that it is provocation which fuels these disasters. I'm not saying I believe in this…_Phantom_, or that my daughter has taken up with _him_. Oh, I don't doubt you when you say you saw her, that she is married. But if more men are to die because you chose to pursue her, or to hunt him down, then you must desist. I am telling you, Henri—leave them alone."

"What if he harms her?"

"She must have chosen him in the first place, and she must suffer such consequences, I suppose, if they arise. But I never thought her to be that stupid."

Henri stood a bit straighter, his lips pressed tightly against each other. With a curt little nod at Gautier, he turned and left the office, and then the opera house.

He took his carriage back to his family's luxurious townhouse, where he armed himself with the various weapons he had acquired in his young life—daggers, a pistol, even a rope of his own. An hour or two later, he returned to the _Opera Populaire_. Making his way back down to the lair beyond the underground lake, he felt more prepared to face his enemy.

But when he arrived by the same route he had taken before, he found no enemy, and no lady to rescue. There was not a single sign of life. Even the inspector's body had been disposed of, and he was most reluctant to imagine how. The monster had fled, and Marguerite with him.

Henri stormed into the bedroom and flung open the wardrobe door. Empty. She had been allowed time to pack?

"You must get out of here, monsieur," came a soft female voice. He jumped and whirled around to see a thin, older woman in dark blue standing in the doorway before him. "They are not here," she continued, "and you won't find them. You must leave this place forever."

Henri lowered the knife he had been brandishing. "Who are you?"

She smiled very slightly. "No one of consequence. But you should still heed my word." Almost like a ghost herself, she turned away and seemed to disappear. Henri looked around a little more, but did not find her. When he went back through the mirror frame, he thought he heard her footsteps echoing, but he did not hurry tofind out for sure. He left the opera house once again that day, not once looking back.


	2. Fight or Flight

**A/N: Yes, yes, we are back to the main characters now. Just in case you find Marguerite's thoughts very difficult to follow, remember how the last story ended? Well, keep in mind that she's a bit hurt and confused right now.  
The prologue was supposed to provide a wee bit more closure to the Henri & parents episode, but I think it might have failed. Oh, well, he may come back. But he may not. I only have a few definite plans for this one so far.**

**16 reviews on the first chapter. I guess you people _did _want a sequel. SQUEE! You make my week! I love you all. All right there...just stay calm...be professional...**

Disclaimer: I own Marguerite…that's about it. Oh, and Penelope the horse. Other than that, everything else is just borrowed—Nadir, Erik, etc…although a few have claimed that I am channeling Erik, which is…true! HAHAHA! OK OK OK, just read on.

* * *

"What do you mean, she's not here?" Nadir asked dumbly. 

"I _mean_, I have searched this house and cannot find her!" Erik's voice almost shook the walls with his fury, but it could not be denied there was a hint of panic, as well.

"She can't have gone far."

Erik descended the rest of the staircase and looked out the window. "It will be dark soon."

"I don't think she's foolish enough to go far in darkness," Nadir said. "She is probably quite able to take care of herself, in her right mind."

Erik looked at him murderously. "You think I should let her go off like this, without a word?"

"Oh, not at all," Nadir said. "That is, it is entirely your decision. She is, after all, _your _wife, carrying _your _child. But simply guessing from what you've told me yourself…I would think she is trying to get away from you."

Erik shook his head, incensed, and pulled open the front door. He headed toward the slope overlooking the little stream Marguerite adored. It was her favorite place on the property; doubtless that's where he would find her. But when he reached the top of the hill and she was nowhere to be seen, he felt as though he had just received a very sound slap in the face.

He could not see her running in the distance, but that would have been foolish anyway—she did not know what lay in that direction. They had never ventured there. Behind him, the road to town disappeared around a bend, into the trees. Had she gone that way and disappeared so fast? What did she expect to do in town, and how would that help matters?

When Erik went back down the hill to the house, Nadir approached him with all the caution of a man barely clinging to his life.

"It will be easier for you if you take Penelope," he said, referring to one of the two horses in the stables. "She can't have gone far."

Erik did not need to hear it twice before he hurried back down to the stables and leaped onto Penelope's sturdy back. Sans saddle, bit, or bridle, he steered her toward Eaux Froides, digging his heels into her sides a little harder than he normally would have done.

* * *

Self-hatred coursed through Marguerite's veins, surely as blood, as she hurried down the road to town. Yet again she was running from her problems; sometimes it was the only option left, when all others had been exhausted. She had stayed and fought as much as she could, until she was absolutely tired of fighting. If only there was an easier way…but there never was. Still, what was she expecting to find in town? It would be dark by the time she arrived. Would she then find another boarding house to hole up in? Erik would find her again, of that she had no doubt. He would not, however, be bearing a declaration of love and a plea for her return. It was possible, but for some reason she thought it was quite unlikely. Perhaps he would not want her gone, but neither would he place any blame upon himself. So what had then she to gain by this course of action? 

_I need to think_, she told herself. _Just think, that's all_. _I'll just breathe deeply and clear my head_. _I'll just think this through_…_be reasonable_.

Had Erik gone back to the house by now and realized she had disappeared? She held back a sob. For the first time she considered the idea that he would not even come after her this time. Facing his unreasonable—but ultimately harmless, at least for her—anger was not nearly as terrible as the idea of him deciding to leave her to her own devices from now on. And with a baby coming in about eight months! No, Erik would not just sit back and let her go, let her get away with it.

Once the road began to cut though the thickening woods, the walk actually grew more pleasant, shaded from the intense glare of the evening sun. Light shone between the leaves; the trees were eerily still without a breeze to stir them. Then, her heart climbed into her throat as the sound of hoof beats grew louder somewhere behind her. So soon!

Thinking quickly—or perhaps not at all—she ducked into the trees and crouched behind an enormous, rotting log surrounded by a few thin bushes. Perhaps he had already seen her hiding, in which case it was useless to even try, but she wanted a little more time in solitude. Now she really did have to worry what he would do once he caught up with her.

The horse's hooves seemed to keep in time with her own rapidly pounding heart. A second later, sure enough, it was Erik who swept by on Penelope. Marguerite sat, tense and silent, holding her breath. When he was out of sight she moved to sit on the log. Now she had to think faster; he would soon realize she had not gone so far, then turn back to seek her out. What would happen if she denied his "remedy" over and over again? Would he come to reason, or, at the very least, to acceptance? Or was it actually possible he would cast her out, leaving her to fend for herself and deal with the "problem" on her own?

_No, he would not do such a thing_. _He loves me, and is following me to get me back_. Even if he tried to throw her out—after a few seconds, the idea was absurd—she would fight to the death, no matter how weary she was.

Or was he bringing her back simply to keep what belonged to him?

It was not even five minutes later that she heard the horse again, but the sounds of trotting slowed and then died out before Marguerite even saw her. The silence was weighty and disturbing—not even the birds chirped in their perches. Then, she heard a soft snort, and saw the horse standing in the road, completely alone and looking quite carefree.

"What the devil…" Marguerite whispered to herself. She glanced around for any sign of Erik, finding nothing. There was not a stir of his cloak, not a glint of a white mask, not a rustle of the earth beneath a sturdy foot. Penelope calmly tossed her head and flicked her tail to rid herself of annoying flies. Why had Erik left her here like this? He must have gone into the woods to look for his wife, but she heard nothing that gave so much as a hint of it. But then, Erik never did make himself noticed if he did not wish it.

He probably hoped to capture her as she fled through the trees. How crazy did she have to be to run from her husband? But considering who he was…

Penelope was beginning to look a bit skittish, though she never took more than one step in any direction. Feeling pity for the creature, Marguerite stepped out from the shelter of the trees, looking cautiously all around her. Still no sign of him. She smiled impishly as she stroked the velvet nose, wondering how Erik would feel if she jumped on the horse and took off, either for town or back to the house.

There was a doctor in town, and a midwife. Doubtless she needed their knowledge, for she herself knew nothing of bearing a child. She could find Madame Busque, tell the woman she had been right all along, and that her help was desperately needed. Marguerite frowned. Not half an hour, she had told Erik she loved it where she was. Well, she certainly did not know he would be irrational about…everything. Jealousy, she could understand; betrayal, certainly. Lord knew it was what life had always taught him to expect. But this ghastly desire to kill his baby…out of a completely unfounded fear that surely would not even impact a son's life the same way…!

"Where did he go, hmm?" she asked the horse, keeping her voice low and soft. "Is he going to be furious when he finds me? I say 'when' because I know he will. I wasn't running away permanently, you know. I just had to get away for a bit…just a little bit." She sighed. "Have you ever had a foal?"

A shadow fell upon her. Her wrist, as she stroked Penelope's head, was caught and stilled in an icy grip. Looking into the horse's eyes, she saw a dim reflection, a white mask its most pronounced feature. Slowly she turned her head and slid her vision upward to his face. The look in his eyes held shock, confusion, and anger—with anger, surprisingly, _not _the dominant emotion. The hurt Marguerite saw peeking out from within him made her want to shrivel up, like one of the dried leaves beneath her feet.

"I cannot begin to imagine what you were thinking," he said gruffly.

"It's a natural instinct to protect one's child," she replied, her voice a little shaky despite her best efforts. "Even from his father, however _good _his misguided intentions may be."

"Can we not settle this later?" he asked, his words suddenly regaining their imperious tone.

"The choice is yours," Marguerite said. "I only wanted to be alone a short while, to bring my thoughts together. If you insist upon having your way in this dispute…I cannot return at all. Or, if I do, I will fight you 'til the end and give you no peace. And that would simply destroy me. I could not bear to do that to you, Erik, but I will if you drive me to."

Erik's lips parted in the astonishment he allowed himself to show. A flame of indignation flickered in his chest and threatened to explode into rage. How _dare _she speak that way to him! How _dare _she! Yet she stood before him, completely certain of herself. There was no weakness in the set muscles of her jaw, not a flicker of indecision in her shining eyes. How could she stand to face him this way?

"I will not become a murderer for you," she went on. "I love you, Erik, despite what you have done, and I would die for you as well. But if you force me to choose between this innocent life inside me, and you…then I must choose to save a life, both as a mother-to-be, and a woman who must obey God's commandment against murder."

If Erik had previously felt as if someone had slapped him, now he had a sense of a heavy boot being delivered to his abdomen. Again, he was reminded of his own mother, who had kept him alive as a child, even when she despised to look at his unmasked face. She had not killed him, also out of fear for her own soul, fear of Hell's punishment for such a sin. But looking upon Marguerite, he saw love plain in her face. It was not merely a spiritual duty for her; she was staunchly determined to keep this _creature_.

"You know why I don't want this," he said.

"I understand. I understand, and I disagree. I simply can't believe you could pass this affliction onto a child. Even if you did, it would not matter to me. I've told you all this before."

"You can't tell me it wouldn't bother you!"

"Of course it would! Of _course_ I would rather it not happen. But I don't believe it _will!_ Even if it did, I would treat him all the same, and that's all I am trying to tell you." She paused. "Erik, if you could know for certain that our child would have a normal, whole face…would you still want to kill him?"

Erik looked away before he could answer. "No…perhaps not." He heard her tiny sigh of satisfaction, and bristled at it. He turned back to her to ask, "And if you knew for certain that it would look like me…you would still wish to bear it?"

"Yes."

"You are an absurd, unreasonable woman."

"Every creature deserves to exist. _You _deserved to exist, Erik. You still do."

Erik breathed a resigned sigh through his nose, his mouth tightly closed. He wordlessly picked up Marguerite and set her upon the horse, pulling himself up after her. With a little kick, Penelope trotted back to the house, the sun slipping ever lower in the sky. When they arrived, Erik helped Marguerite down before taking the horse back to the stables.

She went inside and immediately noticed Nadir sat reading in the parlor. She gave him a small nod of acknowledgement, wondering if Erik had told him what had happened. Did he know everything? She did not stop to find out, but went straight upstairs to lie down on the bed. Several minutes later, she heard Erik come back inside. When he spoke to Nadir, both their voices were too low for her to understand what they were saying.

"You didn't have to clean up," was what Erik said. He had already looked into the kitchen to see that the damage he created out of anger had been picked up.

"It's only my small contribution. Don't concern yourself with it."

Erik looked at him resentfully, grinding his teeth. He hated feeling beholden to anyone. "No need to worry—I won't. Where's Marguerite?"

"Gone upstairs, but she didn't say a word. Is everything settled now?"

Casting Nadir a look that told him it was really none of his business, Erik shrugged, opening his hands in an abstract gesture. "_For _now, I believe."

"You still don't want a child?"

Erik's upper lip curled ever so slightly. "What good is a child to me? How could I possibly help care for one? I can assure you, Daroga, this was _not _my idea!"

Nadir chuckled. "That doesn't matter now, Erik. You still had a part in it, and quite the responsibility now. Come now…You must remember how much you loved my son, Reza. You bought him wonderful gifts and brought him such joy the last months of his life…" He swallowed. "Even if you did help hasten those months a bit."

Erik said nothing, but he would not look at Nadir. When he lived in Persia and served under the depraved khanum, his bloodthirsty, corrupted way of life had made him an unfeeling expert when it came to doling out deaths. He had thought not about the cost, to him or Nadir, obscuring the act with smoke and mirrors as he had always done. It was all for the boy's comfort, he had told both Nadir and himself. He had buried his regret deep within; had never let Nadir know just how much he missed Reza after that. But as usual, Nadir's voice cut into his thoughts.

"Still, Erik, think how meaningful your life will become, after all those years of grief and emptiness. I can't begin to tell you what it was like when my wife was carrying our child. I have a feeling Marguerite will have her way with you, my friend."

"Spare me the sentimentality, Daroga," Erik said haughtily. "I may yet convince her. I merely have to be…more subtle."


	3. The Phantom's Cruelest Scheme

**A/N: OK I'm updating sooner than I had planned. But the chapter was done, and so, why not? —Phew!— Let me just say, I am relieved, thinking the previous chapter was crap. Apparently that was not so. I like this one more, still. I wonder if I should say something else about it, but no…I'll just let you be surprised.**

**Review Replies:**

**Sapphire Starless: **Hey, better late than never. I'm just excited it was a lengthy review. Yes, yes, we all hate the cliffhangers, don't we? I know, but sometimes I find them…rather necessary. I adore writing Nadir. He's become a great character in my story, and including him was a very random idea and abrupt decision that I don't regret. Anyway, I deeply appreciate your support! Thank you so much for reviewing!

**Mominator:** The unexpected! Yes! Oh, trust me, I'm going to do my best to make it _not _a repeat of Erik-Christine-Raoul. If I start drifting that way, not only do I expect my loyal readers to bring it to my attention, but I'll have to just cut Henri out of the story somehow.

**Astaraelweeper: **Oh my gosh…you called Erik a dolt. You are a brave, brave person indeed. LOL but it's so true, isn't it? At least in this case, poor confused, insecure phantom.

**KLMerie: **I absolutely could not let that be the beginning of the story! Although that would have been a _very _interesting way to start, with numerous opportunities…Still, I can't see Erik just sitting back and letting her leave that way.

**LynnP:** Your reviews never cease to give me a warm and fuzzy feeling. And you're so sincere! Thank you so much for your compliments. Truthfully, I've only read one Jane Austen book (_Sense & Sensibility_), although I loved it, and I'm also familiar w/ the plot of _Pride and Prejudice_. I'll have to read more of her work before I could think of writing a fic based on it. Oh, and although it's not Jane Austen, I did love _Jane Eyre_, and with a lot of rereading I might be able to come up w/ a fic based on that story. I'm not sure, though. If I want to go professional, I'll have to start expanding my own original ideas, rather than someone else's. It is so much fun, though.

**To My Half-Blood Princesses (you know who you are): **I'm sorry, but after this chapter…you have no right to nag me. You just better be **_damn_** happy with it! Whoo, sorry, I'm talking like Erik again…

**And another thing…I am _not_ revealing the baby's gender! You'll just have to wait to find out like Erik and Marguerite.**

Disclaimer: BLAH! Blah, blah, blah, BLAH!

* * *

That evening, after thinking things over, Erik arrived at what he considered to be a very sensible conclusion. Marguerite had discovered she was having a baby, and, knowing he was rather against the idea, had attempted to warm him up to it through her feminine ways. He was going to try the very same method on her…slightly altered, of course, to his own inclinations. He climbed the stairs and entered the bedroom; the sight that met his eyes almost swayed him. 

Marguerite was asleep on her usual side of the bed, lying on her back with her head turned to the left, her lips slightly separated. Her left hand stretched out across the bed, palm downward. The other rested on her belly as though trying to embrace—or protect—her tiny, unborn child. She had not undressed, but merely removed her shoes before collapsing on the bed and falling into unconsciousness. How could she look so peaceful after all that had happened and was still happening? She must have been so exhausted. With all the work to do, and carrying a baby, it would only intensify.

Erik shattered his moment of uncommonly maudlin thoughts by the control he often exerted over his own mind. He took pride in a skill he considered necessary. True, no longer did he have to suppress a natural yearning of his own body, but in moments like these, when he felt himself going soft, he still needed that control. Although every sensible particle in his mind told him to give in to Marguerite on this matter of the baby, he still believed he might emerge the victor in their little skirmish. When he imagined his wife's belly growing, her whole body swollen and distorted, and her physical capabilities shrinking, it was rather easy to build up resentment toward the little—_thing_—within her.

Not that he despised children in general. Normally he felt compassion for them, remembering how terrible his own childhood had been, and knowing they were weak and vulnerable to all sorts of cruelties. It was the same with all helpless creatures…it was the same with women. It made him sick to think of his wife dying in childbirth because of her stubbornness to bring into the world a baby who would be as misshapen as its father. He hated the idea of her being even temporarily incapacitated. The slightest thing could go wrong, and she might die for it. And he would be left with nothing—nothing but Nadir and a vile little version of himself years ago.

He was not sure how long he stood there, just looking at her, as she lay in the depths of slumber, but eventually she began to stir. She frowned with her eyes still closed, the sideways twist of her neck providing no amount of comfort. _Where had she gone? _he wondered. What happened to her in her dreams, the secret worlds and actions between the layers of her mind, which he could not share? He yearned to know every detail, to be a part of every unfolding tale, but could not.

He no longer doubted the truth in anything she said. He held no disbelief that she would gather up her few possessions and take to the road, should he keep up this resistance. He could not lose her. He _would not_ lose her—not to her own stubbornness and sense of morality, not to some tiny stranger who did not deserve to live anyway, and certainly not to his own weakness! A gradual alteration of her mindset…that's all this called for. He did not want to damage her in any way. In fact, all this was his method of protecting her. She said she understood his point of view, but she didn't, not really. If she did, she would have agreed by now, and their problems would be over.

_Erik, your problems will _never _be over_.

The thought came cruelly, unbidden. He blinked hard, as though that simple action would wipe it out of his head. He heard a soft sigh, and lifted his lids again. Marguerite's left hand was sliding downward in a slow, sweeping motion, and she turned her face toward the ceiling. When she opened her eyes, Erik saw they appeared redder than usual. Had she cried herself to sleep? She blinked a few times, and then her head came up just enough for her to see him clearly.

"How long have you been here?"

"Not to worry," he said, moving to the side of the bed closest to her, "you weren't talking in your sleep."

She sat up, pushing disheveled hair back over her shoulder. "I didn't even know I'd fallen asleep…" She swallowed. "Erik, I wasn't going to be gone forever," she said. "I was confused and…afraid."

He knelt beside the bed and took her face between his hands. "You don't need to be afraid of me," he whispered. "I never want to hurt you."

"I know," she said. "And…you must still love me, despite everything. You brought me back. You agreed."

Erik bit his tongue and let her go on convincing herself of that.

"I'd miss you too much," she went on, her voice choked. It seemed she had not even been paying attention to what he'd said. "If only you could j—"

He abruptly silenced her with a kiss, bringing her eyes half-closed. Her lips softened, and her stomach twisted in knots the way he could always make it. The now-familiar sweeping warmth rushed through her again, clouding her mind, slowing time as her heart sped up. She worked her hands up to his face and, when he had released her mouth, removed the mask. That done, she wrapped her arms around him to seal their lips again, creating a fervent combination of warm breaths.

Erik made no move to hide himself this time. Let her see, let her do what she wished for this one moment. Burying his hands in her hair, he tilted back her head, exposing her neck as his mouth moved downward, the very tip of his tongue emerging between his lips with each kiss. Marguerite gently took his hands out of her hair and guided them down to explore her body—familiar but cherished territory by now. She woke up quickly. He felt her fingers on his chest, groping for the buttons of his shirt, and he realized how easy she was going to make this. For a moment, there was a flash of guilt, but he promptly buried it.

"I'm so glad…so glad you agreed," Marguerite said, once the last article of clothing had been discarded on the floor. "You won't regret it. I promise."

Her smile held a tender warmth, a joy, that even the fires of passion could not burn up and consume. Once again, Erik found himself nearly swayed, until he closed his mind to it yet again. It was still difficult. He was with his wife, the woman he loved, making her shiver under his caresses. He lost himself in her body and almost forgot the true purpose for this little diversion. Let her think she had won this time; in a few days, she would be so grateful to him, she would agree to anything. As it was…

He lowered his head and kissed her the way she liked, eliciting a euphoric moan from within her throat. Oh, how he hated himself in that moment. This was his cruelest scheme, yet it had to be done. He had to save her from herself—and save himself as well, while he was at it. When Marguerite cried out in rapture and then kissed him over and over, repeating with gasping breaths that she loved him, he almost stopped her to confess his dastardly plan. Somehow he resisted the urge. Passion spent, he lay beside her, holding her as she clung to him, despite the warmth of the late spring evening, and traced the old scars on his chest.

"It's going to be beautiful, Erik," she murmured as she drifted off. "Everything will be…"

He hated to have to prove her wrong.

* * *

Marguerite woke up to a tangle of sheets, and sunlight burning her eyes. What truly shocked her was seeing Erik beside her; he was usually awake and out of bed long before she was. Thinking he might be ill, she reached out and placed her hand on his forehead. It was cool, easing her concern, but the sudden touch awoke him, and he sat up quickly. His eyes shifted rapidly around the room, looking bewildered for a moment. Apparently he had surprised himself, as well. When he turned back to Marguerite, she was smiling—the same smile she had given him last night. 

"_Bonjour_," she said as she stretched a finger to trace his jaw line, then his mouth. "You are so wonderful, _mon cher_. What would I do without you?"

"Waste away, I suppose," Erik said, not returning the smile, "as I would without you." He stroked her cheek for a moment with his fingertips. "Now, I think it's time to get up." He turned to get out of bed, but Marguerite seized his hand.

"No," she said in a small voice. "Erik, don't go…just this once, please. Just for a moment, stay here with me."

"But there's still work to be done," he said, watching the fire blazing in her eyes.

"Kiss me as though you mean it, at least." He did. "_Merci_, _mon ange_."

"Oh, yes, I am an angel," he said as he turned away to get dressed once more, "now that I've given you a night of previously unheard-of bliss. Twelve hours ago, I was a murderer."

"Don't say that." Marguerite began to dress herself as well, staring wide-eyed at Erik and wondering why he had just spoken those words. "Erik, I thought…"

"Yes?"

"I thought you had changed your mind. About the baby and…everything."

"Who says I haven't?" He stepped toward her and smoothly turned her to face away from him, holding her so her back was pressed against his chest. "You must be imagining things," he whispered in her ear. "That's never a good sign."

Marguerite turned herself back around to look at him. "Does Nadir know?"

Blinking, Erik frowned. "Know about what?"

She sighed. "About us having a baby. He's your friend, and he must have thought there was something strange going on when you jumped on Penelope and came after me."

"He does, but what does it matter to you?"

"He lives almost under our roof—eventually he would have to know for sure. I was only curious if he knew already." She smiled again. With a lift to her eyebrows, she said, "You mustn't look so suspicious," and left the room to make breakfast downstairs.

"Good morning, Marguerite," Erik heard Nadir say from the kitchen.

"Good morning!"

It was enough to get Erik down the stairs quickly. Nadir gave him a slightly astonished look, and an even more indistinct smile. Biting her lower lip in a failed attempt to hide her own grin, Marguerite moved to Erik's side and wrapped one arm around his.

"Erik has told you?" Her voice quavered slightly with her withheld excitement. "We're going to have a baby." Her smile dropped when Nadir's eyes turned away from Erik and penetrated hers. He looked as serious as Marguerite had ever seen him.

"I could not be happier for you both."

He did not _sound _particularly happy, but she knew he was serious. For some reason, she sensed the remark was directed more toward Erik than herself, even though those deep, dark eyes were looking at her instead.

"I _am_ happy," she said, casting a knowing look at Erik. The vacant look on his face caused the back of her mind to prickle with concern, but she kept it there, refusing to dwell on it much. "Well, then, I suppose you want breakfast…"

"Not at all, _merci_," Nadir said. "I've helped myself to a morsel, and I see it's time to get back to work. I suppose I'll take Cyrus into town. The horses need more feed." He gave Marguerite a little nod of courtesy before he left. She looked back at Erik.

"I don't need anything," he said. "I'll be in the stables, repairing the last stalls that need it." With that, he followed Nadir out the back door and down the slope.

Too excited to eat, Marguerite dashed across the house to the parlor and sat down to write a letter. Five weeks since she had seen Katie, her only friend at the opera house. Surely the younger woman would be absolutely appalled at the idea of Marguerite having a child with _the Opera Ghost_, but she knew they were married, and that Marguerite adored her husband, strange as it might seem.

She filled several pages with general news and inner, feminine thoughts. Within the next few days, she would take it to town to be delivered. She also had to stop and pay a visit to Madame Busque, or her husband, the town doctor…

* * *

That evening, Erik was playing the piano while Marguerite dozed against his shoulder. It was not exactly advantageous to his performance—in fact, it was utterly distracting—but he let it go. He still had a conspiracy to stick to. Every minute of the day he had to keep from giving in, but he was determined to have his way. 

Nadir had, fortunately, retired to the room they had fixed up for him above the stables, as he had refused the other bedroom. Not the best-smelling space on the property, of course, but stayed on as a groomsman, in exchange for room and board and Erik sparing his life when his temper got too piqued. But he usually lingered into the evenings, listening to Erik play or Marguerite read. Tonight, they had the house to themselves.

She sat up straight when Erik reached his right hand for a particularly high note.

"Is that the end?" she asked in a whisper.

"Yes. Even if it wasn't, I'd have to stop. You need your rest, it seems."

"Mmhmm," she murmured, leaning against him again. He held her at a distance as he stood up from the bench, and then lifted her into his arms to carry her the rest of the way. Going up the stairs, he dared to voice something he knew she would not be exactly pleased to hear.

"A few more months, and I won't be able to do this."

She just smiled. "A few more months after _that_, and you'll have someone else to carry."

Curse her. He bit back a sharp retort and tried again. "I can't imagine how tired you're going to be in a few weeks…when it all gets worse…when you already tire quite early."

"Even so, it'll be over eventually."

"And then there will be another living thing around here, screaming for your attentions."

Her brows came together when she frowned. "Erik, I thought you had accepted the idea."

"Don't talk right now," he said silkily. "You need your rest, after all."

"But you said—"

"I know what I said. Just leave it be for now." He placed her on the bed, her eyes clenched shut with innermost pain. "Marguerite…don't…please."

"Last night, you said such sweet things…"

"Yes. Sincerely. But you're tired, and we cannot discuss this now. Go to sleep and try to forget it."

"Forget it? Erik, this is a grave problem that has to be—"

"_Later_," he said firmly. He cupped her face and brushed his thumbs across her cheekbones. "Later. Just…sleep now." Inside, he cursed and swore and broke countless knickknacks. His plan was failing.

Confused, Marguerite curled up beside him, relieved when he put his arms around her. They remained silent, though neither fell asleep for a long time.


	4. Taunting, Tension, and Truth

**A/N: At last. I'm sorry this chapter took so long to put up, but you wouldn't believe how much trouble I had with it. It was completely botched, so I had to repair it and add to it and take other parts off. —**sigh—** Anyway, it's up now!**

**At the request of one of the two Half-Blood Princesses, as I've named them, I want to take a poll…what is the baby's gender? I've already got it picked out (w/ a semi-planned plot), but I just want to know what everyone thinks. If you already know (there are at least 2 of you!), don't say!**

**A massive thank-you / shout-out / group hug to Katie, Sandy, and Danielle, who made yesterday my best birthday ever!**

Disclaimer: If you have not figured this out by now, I shall have to force you…then I shall have to kill you.

* * *

"Erik, it hurts." 

Out of frustration, his hands pounded out a dissonant chord on the piano. "This is a _new reaction_," he said bitterly.

"I don't mean to hurt your feelings," she said, turning away, "but I just…it feels strange right now. The music is so heavenly that it's painful." She smiled as she looked back, trying to mollify him. "I have only a mortal's ears, remember? Perhaps it's my condition…"

"You're not using your _condition_ as an excuse not to practice," he said, his tone low and ominous. "Not yet, anyway. Now, stand like I taught you."

She sighed. "You know I'm not a professional singer…and I certainly don't aspire to be one."

"This is good for you anyway," he said. "The music-makers of this household must perform to the best of their abilities. I insist."

"You always _insist_," she mumbled, adjusting her posture. _Hopefully our child will have as much talent as the father, particularly a boy_…_If it's a girl, God forbid she sing like me_. "Can't I practice the sonnet? You know it's my favorite—after all, you wrote it just for me." Did she sound childish? Ah, well, at the moment she did not care.

"You must expand your repertoire, my dear." He flexed his fingers before returning them to the ivory keys once more.

When he played the introduction to a completely different piece, Marguerite's hand flew out to grip the edge of the piano. She knew this tune; not very well, for she had only heard him play it once before. It had twisted her mind and ensnared her heart with such ecstatic, disturbing pain that she had begged him not to make her hear it ever again. It was the deadliest, most unearthly composition of anything Erik had ever created, and she feared every note of it. There were hardly words for it, this creation which could hardly be contained by the words of mere human expression.

He kept playing.

When she found her voice after several long seconds of agonized searching, she rasped, "Erik…please stop!" It seemed he could not hear her, his eyes were closed, his head tilted downward at a slight angle. She sank to her knees, covering her ears as every muscle in her being tightened. "Don't…"

He opened his eyes and met hers, and though she could not translate what his face bespoke, she knew he did it on purpose completely. She somehow pulled herself back to her feet and turned away, crossing the room, headed for the door. Halfway across the floor, Erik abruptly lifted his fingers from the keys, and silence reigned for a moment. Marguerite stopped short, one trembling hand coming to her chest, feeling her heart pounding like a frightened rabbit's.

She did not turn around, but when she felt Erik's fingertips gently brush her shoulder, close to her neck, resistance was not once considered.

* * *

"Erik," Nadir said, brushing down the horse, "you still don't want that child, do you." 

He had to wait for a long time before Erik's answer came from the next stall. "No. And my reasons have not changed."

"It would seem Marguerite thinks you do."

"That's her mistake."

"Is it? Based on what evidence?" the Persian asked, growing more frustrated. He had never been comfortable or accustomed to Erik's talent and tendency to play with people, as a cat played with her prey. Why did he have to be so damned elaborate about everything?

"You are not staying out of my business as you should, daroga," Erik said with warning in his voice. "This is nothing to do with you."

"I cannot stand by and witness while you lie to the poor girl's face!"

Erik stormed over to Nadir, towering over him with an obvious attempt at intimidation. "I have not spoken a single untruth."

"You know damn well your _actions _are enough to make her think you've agreed." The look on Erik's face did nothing to discourage him. He had seen it many times before. "Seducing one's own wife has its place, but the way you go about it…and _why_ you do…Are you trying to mold her, Erik, into a mindlessly obedient concubine? Are you making her so pliable in your hands that she'll submit to the slightest inclination of your twisted mind?"

The blow came before Nadir even knew what was coming. His head was knocked against Cyrus before he collapsed to the straw-covered floor. The horse tossed his mane with a whinny and stepped nervously away from the two men, almost trapping Nadir's hand beneath one heavy hoof. Nadir wiped blood from his lip and looked resentfully up at Erik.

"I see I've struck the target quite well."

Erik took another step toward him. "You will say nothing to Marguerite."

"It's not 'Marguerite' anymore, is it?" Nadir asked. "It's Christine Daae all over again—one more human you're turning into something merely to suit your purposes."

This time he was not at all surprised when Erik grabbed him by the shirt and hauled him to his feet, only to slam him against the wall so hard, the building seemed to shake and Nadir's breath was knocked right out of his lungs. He was being a fool, he knew, and Erik might still very well kill him out of anger. If he could only get it though Erik's head to see the mistake he was making, Nadir would consider his life anything but wasted.

"Shut up, you idiot!" Erik thundered. "I don't want to kill you, but I swear to God I will!" He roughly shoved the Persian away from him, stepping backward. "If you go to Marguerite with these notions, I shall be forced to kill you. She _will _submit to me, daroga. It's for her own good. It's for _everyone's _own good."

_I don't recall you ever being concerned with anyone's own good_, Nadir thought. This time, he was smart enough to keep it to himself.

* * *

Marguerite felt stiff when she opened her eyes into early-morning darkness. Her lack of movement had nothing to do with her muscles. Rather, she was frozen by a cold, debilitating fear that rested, blanket-like, upon her entire form. Trying to swallow a lump in her throat, she finally worked up the courage to turn and look at Erik. Instead, she met a dark void, his thin figure absent from their bed. 

Lying there, she began to hear light, tinkling piano notes drifting up from the parlor. She had almost mistaken the music for light rain on the roof, but recognized Erik's hand in it.

Just what was going on with him? He had ranted forever about why he did not want a baby. He had completely explained it to her, begging for her to understand. Yet, when she left—in order to protect the child against its father—he came after her and brought her back. He _knew _she would leave again if he kept insisting that she put their child at risk. Had he not at last agreed to her? And that night, the way he touched her…She fought back the yearning that swelled within her when she remembered it. Hadn't he decided not to argue with her about this anymore?

Yet after all that, he had said…What was it?

_In a few weeks_…_when it all gets worse_…

…_There will be another living thing around here, screaming for your attentions_…

It sounded as though he was still trying to convince her to do things his way. Apparently he had no concern for his own soul—or his wife's for that matter—or that this child deserved love like any other. It was certainly conceived in it. So much for everything being settled, decided, and taken care of.

Even his music-playing, once so loving and enthusiastic, was dark, brooding, and frighteningly _provoquant_. As he used the instruments to conjure such tunes, it seemed he played with her in the same way. Yet it did not completely lure her into a state of malleable semi-consciousness, though that did occur often enough. Most of the time she allowed it to happen, which disturbed her as much as anything else.

_I suppose I will have to ask him about it eventually_.

"It's all right, my darling," she said to the child in her womb, though she knew it could not hear her. "Your father will love you. He doesn't like the idea of you right now, but…he will. I promise." She closed her eyes tightly. "Oh, Lord, please make it beautiful. Please let Erik be wrong about this."

She dressed and went down the stairs, finding Erik exactly as she had expected, leaning over the piano, deep in concentration. Heavens, he was so beautiful, even when, as now, the only part of his face she could see was the white mask. Every inch of him radiated grace, power, and magnificence, despite his frighteningly thin frame. When he spoke, it only increased. Yet when he played, as he did now, he was completely absorbed, almost a different man entirely.

She was almost standing over him by the time he noticed her. He stopped playing and looked up at her with an utterly indecipherable expression.

"Is there something you want?"

_Yes, I believe so_. "I have a question."

The only indication she received to proceed was the slightest lift of his eyebrows before he turned back to the music resting on the piano. Why was he being so cold? She had the oddest sensation of an undercurrent, something going on beneath the surface, that she could detect but not determine. What was Erik keeping from her?

"Do you really mind having this baby?"

He stared at the music for another few moments before turning back to her. "Why do you ask when you don't want to know the answer?"

Marguerite's face altered, conveying pure confusion with not a little anger. "But…I told you I would leave if you tried to change my mind. Then you brought me back. What else was I to think?"

Erik shrugged in feigned aloofness. "Think what you wish. It is your child, after all." Surely this would break her.

"_Mine?_" Her eyes widened in shock. "Erik, there's something wrong. You've got to tell me what it is."

He thought she was beginning to sound slightly hysterical. It was only a matter of time before she was begging for something to do to make everything all right again. She sat beside him on the bench, but when she placed a hand on his shoulder, he abruptly flinched and moved away to stand and lean against the fireplace. Marguerite's throat tightened as she turned in her seat.

"_Please_, Erik, there's obviously something wrong. Just tell me." She stood up and took a few steps toward him. "I can't bear this. You were so loving, and…now you're behaving as though you wish I really was gone for good. Something had to have happened. Please, if you'll only tell me what's happened, I'll do anyth—"

She stopped herself just in time, dropping the hand that had once more been stretched out to him. Her mouth stayed slightly open in disbelief, and she took several backwards steps, slowly shaking her head.

Erik had turned to watch her, the same veiled expression in his eyes, except…was that guilt? Shaking, Marguerite turned and left the room, retreating back upstairs. She shut the bedroom door firmly behind her and sat on the bed with no intentions of falling back to sleep, covering her face in shame. She had almost succumbed…she would have, if she had not so quickly come to her senses.

The Virgin would not help her in this conflict with a man. She had to appeal to the Lord Himself. _Heavenly Father, forgive me_. _Please protect me_…_protect my child_.

She did not hear any more music, but jumped at the unmistakable sound of the piano lid crashing down over the keys, and then the slamming of the front door.

The sun was just beginning to rise. The house was encased in an eerie silence.

* * *

It was a long time before she came back downstairs. Erik was gone, as she had expected; she had not heard a sound to indicate his return, either. Now she was the one left at home, wondering in agony where he had gone and what he was doing there. This whole situation was tearing them apart, and Marguerite had to fight down an inclination of her own to resent the baby within her. But no, it was not his fault…or her fault, as the case may be. 

What was this he did? Accommodating and adoring, and a few days later—cold and hard as she had ever seen him. It was madness. She felt as though she was being broken down and disorientated until she had no idea what to do…Or was that the idea?

The sun had risen already, but a dawn of comprehension was just now beginning to pierce through Marguerite's mind.

"What is this game you play, Erik?" she whispered to herself.

Suddenly, as she stepped into the kitchen, another wave of nausea crashed upon her. Gasping, pressing her hand to her mouth, she burst through the back door and collapsed to her hands and knees on the grass, retching violently. Before staggering to her feet, she angrily slammed her palms against the ground. She had to endure _this _as well!

When she went to look around for Erik, she found only Nadir in the garden, his head down, scanning the shoots for stubborn weeds. When he noticed her, he took an automatic step back.

"Good morning, Madame Marguerite," he said, straightening his posture only to give her a little bow. Years of life under a tyrannical shah had certainly taught him well in the art of servility. Marguerite only smiled and greeted him in return, but both her eyes and voice were distracted.

Finally she asked, "Where is Erik?"

"I have no idea," the Persian answered honestly. "I thought he would be with you."

"No," she said, her words low and half to herself. "No, he is not with me." There was an uncomfortable silence before she said, her voice beginning to grate with oncoming tears, "There's something wrong with him." When the Persian swallowed and looked away, on the pretense of pulling a few more weeds, she knew he was hiding something as well.

"Nadir, what do you know?" Her tone was not nearly so threatening as Erik's, but she was certainly trying her best.

"Absolutely nothing, madame." He would not look at her.

"You don't know…or you won't say."

"Madame—"

"Which is it?" She took another step toward him, eyes flashing.

He tried using Erik's own words for this. "It is none of my concern, is it now? What happens is between you and Erik, and apparently my life is in jeopardy if I interfere."

"Nadir, what do you _know?_" Her voice rose to a panicked, stabbing note.

"Only…that Erik is an endless maze who has brought some of the strongest, kindest, most patient human beings to their knees in rage. I'm impressed you have remained with him this long."

"So am I," she said, barely soothed. "But if he keeps insisting that I destroy my child, I will have no other choice…" She looked at Nadir sideways. "I'm sure you already know of his concerns regarding this baby."

"His father's face."

"God forbid."

"Madame…he may not change his mind. In fact, I'd wager he won't."

She wiped away tears. "I thought he had."

"I know." Nadir bit his lip, wondering if he should actually defy Erik's most violent threat and warn her of what he was doing. "You must remain strong. You cannot let him change your mind, not by any means. The child must live—I believe Erik needs this. And if he abandons you, which I doubt, you will need the child more than ever." Ignoring the possible, terrible repercussions, he moved a step closer and took one of her hands. "Do not submit to him in this, whatever may happen. If he insists, then you _must _flee."

Wide-eyed, Marguerite shook off his hand and backed away. "Why is he like this? What happened to him in Persia? It has to come back to Persia, I just know…I know you've been avoiding telling me, but you can't keep it much longer. I'm his wife. I have a right to know."

Nadir closed his eyes, knowing this conversation could not have been avoided forever.

"You must understand," he began, "he has good reason for thinking as he does, even if it is wrong. His face and his genius combined have made a ghastly effect on his life. So many things should not have happened, and…there are a few things that did not happen, but should have. Although, now he has you, I don't see it makes much difference. But he has every right to hold his beliefs, even if he has no right to carry them out."

"But what _happened_ to him?" she asked. "He won't tell me, and you are so damn loyal, you won't breathe a word. How can I _understand_ what I don't _know_? I know his mother hated him and was incredibly cruel, but he won't believe me when I tell him I would never dream of being so to _our _child."

"Marguerite," he said firmly, in a rare moment of using her given name, "Erik would kill me if he knew I told you."

"Then he must never know." As she said the words, they sounded perfectly idiotic to her. When Nadir spoke, his words reflected those very same thoughts.

"Can _you _keep Erik from knowing something you don't want him to?"

She thought of how she told him she was pregnant to begin with. She remembered when she'd had to break the news to him that Christine had borne a son to the Vicomte de Chagny. So many times, she had tried to keep secrets from him, and so many times she just somehow failed.

"I'm afraid not," she admitted. He nodded, and she said, "It's quite beyond my capabilities." She stood and waited, waited for him to say something else. At last he did.

"I was sent from Persia to Russia to find the world's greatest magician. A traveler had brought reports of him to the royal court, and of course the shah's erratic interest was piqued. Nothing could have prepared me for Erik—his death's face, his captivating voice, his feats of magic that defied all natural laws. He exerted the most incredible control over human beings. Doubtless you have seen that yourself. Crowds went mad before him when they witnessed his magic and heard his song. _Persia _herself was not prepared for him."

Marguerite leaned forward slightly. "Go on."

Nadir hesitated. "Erik caught the interest of Persia's most powerful woman—the shah's mother. She was depraved, madame, and captive of the most sordid bloodlust and twisted vices. She needed a new form of entertainment, as did her son. That's what Erik was brought for."

"Just a…a sort of court jester?" Marguerite asked. "A man like him?" It was not exactly amusing, but she found the corners of her mouth curling upward.

"Not quite," Nadir said. "At first, yes, his tricks and songs were performed at weddings…occasions like that. His architectural talents were put to work on a new palace, to transform Persia into the beauty it had been before. Then they started commissioning him—demanding, actually—to put his mind toward less savory diversions—disposing of prisoners."

"What are you talking about?"

"He created new…new kinds of punishments."

"Punishments?"

"Tortures," Nadir said, "to be a bit more blunt."

Marguerite closed her eyes, her brow furrowing as she struggled to believe. "Erik…tortured people?" Murder, obviously, but…

"I've never seen anything like what that man can do with a few mirrors…or that dreaded Punjab lasso. One length of catgut, one broken neck, and he was known as the Angel of Doom. He began to stretch his vast imagination. I lost count of how many—" Nadir shook his head, realizing he was revealing too much to her, too soon.

"Erik…" she whispered. "How could he?" She had managed to push the murder of that Paris police inspector into the back of her mind, almost beginning to agree with Erik that it was self-defense. But this…torture…extended agony…

"He did already possess the inclination—an enormous contempt for humanity—but you cannot refuse the shah. And Erik would never profess to be _unable_ to do something."

"He could have said no," Marguerite murmured.

"And lost his eyes…his hands…his head. Then _you_ would have never crossed his path."

_What a tragedy,_ she thought. Aloud, she said, "I must…I must think about this…Thank you for enlightening me."

"There is much I haven't told you," Nadir said. "It was abysmal, and surely a dark time for him. Those are difficult actions to pardon, but it was a long time ago—"

"I've heard enough," Marguerite interrupted. She sighed harshly. "You're like me, Nadir. Fight him constantly, but defend him to the death to others. Is it purely out of fear? Were you yourself brought close to the afterworld by this Angel of Doom? I can't imagine he could have made many friends there." She held up her hand as the Persian opened his mouth to say something more. "No, no, please. I'm not thinking before I speak. Only…don't tell him I know. He must not be aware we've exchanged these words."

As it turned out, there was no danger in Erik discovering their clandestine conversation. For the rest of the day, there was no sign of him.


	5. Lost and Found

**A/N: FINALLY! I AM HAPPY WITH THIS CHAPTER!Just in case you're confused, check to make sure you actually read the previous chapter. I posted it, deleted it, and posted it again, and I don't know if it sent out another alert or not. So…Lots of stuff going on in this chapter—a great turning-point. Gave me a lot of trouble to write, let me tell you. Listening to the Original London Cast Recording of _Miss Saigon_ really helped in writing about heartbreak and abandonment. Anyway…**

Disclaimer: I don't own _Phantom of the Opera_

* * *

"Nadir?" Marguerite's voice, small and concerned, sounded through the stables. 

"Madame?" She looked up to see him standing, covered in hay, in the loft. "Did you want something?"

"May I take your horse to go look for Erik? There's been no sign of him, and he's been gone since very early this morning."

She asked him with the same tone and posture as though she was his daughter. Certainly she was young enough to be. The idea gave the Persian a pang somewhere between his chest and his throat—she was so young, yet with child and married to Erik, of all men. He never did find out what it was that made her seem so regal and aristocratic, yet as normal a woman as he had ever met. Erik would not reveal anything about her past, and Nadir was certainly wary of asking her on his own. He found himself wishing they could be friends, as he was a friend to her husband, but Erik's jealous, possessive nature would probably never let such a thing take root.

"He'll be all right," Nadir said uneasily. "These country roads are not safe for a woman alone. And I don't think…"

Marguerite wrung her hands. "I can't help thinking something terrible happened to him."

Nadir smiled down at her. "Now, what could possibly happen to Erik?"

"Do you really want me to answer that?" she asked as he climbed down the ladder. "He could have been beaten to death by a group of tramps on the highway. He could have been thrown from his horse. He could have said just the wrong thing to someone, and gotten shot—"

"All right, I see your point," Nadir said. "But I still don't think it's best for you to go searching for him. I doubt he would be so foolish…You know Erik. He'll return when he's ready, and not a moment before."

For a moment, their eyes met, and both knew what the other was thinking, though neither said another word. _If he returns_. Marguerite sighed and turned to leave the stables, but Nadir's voice called her back.

"Madame, you do realize…this may be exactly what he wants out of you."

Marguerite stopped and looked at him in disbelief. Of course. Erik _would_ do something like that—disappear for a few hours without explanation, just to make her worry. Doubtless it fit in with the rest of whatever else he was trying to do. She shuddered to think that she had almost begged for something to do to make things right between them…_anything_.

"Maybe," she said absently, in response to Nadir's remark.

"For now," he said, "why don't you occupy yourself?" He smiled warmly. "Start getting ready for that baby. It will be here before you know it."

At the same time, he thought _Allah_…_Erik does not deserve her, and she deserves better_. _Perhaps it _would _be best if she went back to Paris_.

* * *

Erik felt no hunger, no thirst, and no fatigue as he urged the horse on, her hooves pounding the earth, propelling them forward. He had no idea where he was going. He kept to the furthest side of the road, head lowered, his hood blowing back, and his cape shielding the rest of him from the sun. He had lost track of how far he had traveled from the house, though he knew that if he so wished, he would have no trouble finding his way back. All he wanted at the moment was to get away, from all of humanity, from everything that had happened in the past week. 

Going back was certainly not an option. Maybe later, but not now. He had reached the end of his endurance. He couldn't continue lying to Marguerite, but if he was truthful, it would not be long before he would be watching her disappear around a bend in the road, never to return to his life, left to birth and raise his child completely alone in the world. Then it really _would _end up like him, wouldn't it?

Why did she have to be so unreasonable? If she would only see things his way, it would be fine. He was keeping her best interests at heart. Really and truly he was, and did she thank him? Did she appreciate it? Of course not. She would rather keep his offspring, yet another demonic child, than him. She really had no idea what she was getting into, was she. He must have been out of his mind to become involved with such a stubborn woman.

Yet _if _he never went back…_If_ he left her there…Well, there was still Nadir. Not that he would provide the same—companionship—as her husband, but he was still a friend. Erik frowned at the idea of Marguerite remaining there alone, with only Nadir to help her and care for her. It was not a pleasant thought, but…perhaps she would be relieved. Yes, she would be worried. As time went on, she would probably miss him a great deal, but ultimately she would be grateful he left her, relieved she no longer had to fear for her child. That just might be the kindest thing Erik could ever do for her—or even for anyone, ever.

Suddenly his thoughts were jerked back to the here and now, to the weary animal. The insanely rapid pace was just beginning to slow. How long had he been riding like this? Penelope was probably worn out by now. Feeling the first twinge of guilt since leaving, he gently tugged the reins, easing her to a trot. There was a small pond approaching; perhaps he needed to allow the horse to rest and drink.

* * *

Marguerite paced for what felt like hours before she again remembered Nadir's suggestion. What would Erik think if he returned and found her half-mad with worry? It was just what he wanted to see, right? Oh, she needed to listen to the foreigner much more often; after all, he had known Erik longer than herself. She had to stay calm, to beat Erik at his own game. When he returned, she would act as though she had never even noticed he was gone, had never even missed him. 

Deep down, she knew it was no solution.

She had lost track of how many diapers she had sewn, and had started on a sleeping gown for either a boy or a girl. How had her mother prepared for children, having no idea what was coming? At least now Marguerite was finally getting the hang of knitting, having learned the basics a year ago and quickly called forth from the recesses of her memory. After a while, when she got bored, she read, she ate, she played with Beatrice, and then rested. A few of Erik's books had new tearstains on their pages. Perhaps he would not notice; perhaps he would never return to see.

Despite the logic in Nadir's suggestion, Marguerite could not ignore the clenching in her stomach that had nothing to do with the baby. It was dread, it was fear—death—uncertainty—confusion—even anger.

"I want my Erik back," she whispered, looking out the window. "I know you, and I know who you were, but you're different now. You and I can blame it on the baby, but I know it's you. You're the one who changed. Life outside of Paris has been good for us, but…now…If we are destroyed, it will be on your head."

She covered her eyes. "Oh, God, please bring him back."

The sound of a carriage on the road sent her heart racing again. She yanked her hand down from her face and dashed to the front door and pulled it open. She got halfway down the walk before realizing it was a coach full of travelers—full of strangers. Eyes full of pain, she watched it continue on down the road, bound for destinations unknown. She almost wished she was in there, too.

There was still no sign of Erik when the sun began its decline.

* * *

Though not exactly the most welcome sight, a cemetery seemed as good a place as any for another rest from travel. Erik guided the horse through the trees and in between crumbling headstones. Dredging up old memories brought on by the sight of graves and suggestions of death was not the best thing for him at the moment, considering how things were going in his life. He stopped the horse and dismounted, leading her into a thicker clump of trees. A few of the gravestones were badly crumbled by vegetation, and he absently wondered how old this place was. Finally he dropped the reins to settle on the ground, leaning against a thick tree trunk. 

His memory traveled back to the last time he had been in a cemetery, when Christine Daae was visiting her father's tomb. He had hoped to lure her back to him, but once again that damned Raoul de Chagny foiled his plans. Why did this keep happening to him? She had been so susceptible, so pliable to his will. How did he not hold onto her? With a little more time, she would have done anything he had asked of her—as he would do for her. _Why?_

Why couldn't Marguerite be like that? Things would be so much easier. But no, she had to be stubborn, she had to be so _certain _of everything, whether he agreed with her or not.

Still, Erik realized, the vicomte had not been around when he had seen Christine that very last time, when Marguerite had brought her down there on his orders. His pleading eyes had not swayed her; his touch had not moved her. At least, not enough to convince her to forsake Raoul and return with him. Christine, too, had...changed.

Even remembering _that_ was marked by Marguerite's presence. She was suffering that night, already in love with him, yet freely prepared to leave him so he would have what he wanted. Always she was making sacrifices for him. But this last one she could not do. Why?

_You know it would be wrong_. _So why can't you do the same for her, this once? A baby? It might be fun_…

Good lord, no.

_Face it, Erik_—_You can't control her completely_, _and you hate that_.

_You don't want to admit you're wrong_. _Otherwise, you would go back to her in no time_.

_She's the best thing that has ever happened to you_.

How can you be thinking of Christine at a time like this? 

It got to be so bad that Erik clamped his hands over his ears to block it out, but that didn't work as well as he had hoped. Who was speaking? He moved his hands to clutch his skull, almost in physical pain as he bent over, his face almost touching his knees. Penelope looked at him, perplexed. He fought the voices, and they seemed to die down.

Then he heard another voice, a man's, more real than anything else. Angry and astonished to learn that he was not the only human being around, he finally spotted a figure bent over a grave some distance away. The voice was obviously coming from that body, but the words were indistinguishable.

Something startled Penelope, and she tossed her head and whinnied loudly before Erik could jump to his feet and console her. It caught the eyes and ears of the man across the cemetery, and Erik saw him look up in his direction.

"_Merde_," he said under his breath. The man was coming toward him. Erik shot him a look that was supposed to warn him of impending death if the man came closer.

Was he blind? He kept moving toward Erik, who clenched Penelope's mane with one hand, stroking her flank with the other, all the while wishing he had not been so careless as to leave without any kind of weapon. Well, he could make a weapon out of just about anything…even his bare hands, if it came to that. He turned his back, ostensibly to fix the saddle and continue calming the animal. He sensed another person close behind him, and tensed painfully.

"Good afternoon, monsieur," said an older, somehow weaker voice. "Do you need any help?"

Erik whirled around to meet the weather-worn face of an old, much shorter man. How _dare_ he speak to him!

"No," Erik said brusquely. Should he just kill him now and spare the trouble later?

"Have you someone—contained—here?"

Erik's fingers twitched. Yet he accidentally looked into the other man's damp, red-rimmed brown eyes and found himself reminded of…someone. "No," he said again in answer before it hit him in the gut.

Giovanni. The closest thing to a father Erik had ever known…Giovanni, the Italian master stonemason, his tutor, mentor, and friend. The old man standing before Erik had the same eyes, and something else…the same _essence_. His muscles and skin were sagging with age, but Erik could tell this man must have once been a strong, strapping lad, if a bit on the diminutive side. His dirty trousers hinted at a life of farming.

"Looking for someone?" he asked Erik.

"_No_," Erik said a third time.

"Seems strange to be in a cemetery if you don't know anyone there." He shrugged. "None of my business, monsieur."

"That's what I thought," Erik said, his voice low and not quite intended for the man to hear.

Perhaps the old man had not heard him, or just wisely chose to ignore that remark. He cleared his throat and gestured to where he had been standing. "My wife is buried over there, with our infant son. Died giving birth twenty years ago, exactly, and I visit her every year on that day."

Erik busied himself with Penelope's bridle, hoping he would take the hint and leave.

"Do you have children?"

Erik held his breath and lifted his eyes upward, his whole body stiffening. How did this old man, so far from his house, know to ask him that? _He didn't_, Erik told himself. _You're just suspicious_.

"Not yet," he answered. _Not yet? Not _yet?_ What the hell did you say that for?_

"Not yet, eh? You just wait, monsieur." He chuckled before he cleared his throat and his voice went miserable again, almost on cue, as though he had told this tragic tale innumerable times before. "My other son is buried next to her…we lost him in a fire, only six years old, but I wouldn't trade those six short years for anything in the world."

Erik clenched his teeth. Just his luck—a man he couldn't bring himself to put out of his misery, and he was a chattering old fool. He had to get away from him before Erik got even more irritated and forgot who this farmer reminded him of.

"My daughter and her husband and children live with us. They are the greatest blessings I could have asked for in my old age."

Fuming, Erik lifted a foot into the stirrup and swung his left leg over the horse's back, pulling himself up into the saddle. "Thank you for that little anecdote, old man," he said scathingly. He dug his heels into Penelope's sides and rode away between the stones, not looking back.

* * *

It was well past sundown when Nadir knocked on the back door. He must have seen the candle in the window, for when there was no answer, he let himself in. Marguerite was in the same place she had been a few hours before, curled up on the settee with her forehead leaning against the window frame. 

_Erik, you fool_, the Persian thought. _What do you think you're doing? Now that you're here_…_how could you leave this behind?_ He cleared his throat, but though Marguerite noticed, she barely raised her head. "Madame, you have to sleep. You'll make yourself sick this way, and…it won't make him come back any sooner."

A few tears rolled down Marguerite's face, even though she thought she had run dry. "I'm not going anywhere. Please leave me be."

"Think of the baby."

Her face crumpled like a used handkerchief and she brought one hand to her mouth. "Nadir, just go away. You're not the father—you have no reason to be concerned. I'm not moving until Erik comes home." _He must come home_. _He must_. _He just can't leave me like this_. _If he's not back by tomorrow, I'm going after him, no matter what_.

She was not aware of when Nadir left again. The back of her mind registered the closing of a door, but she had no idea how long that had happened after he entered and gone. She brought her knees up to her chest, her eyes still focused on the blackness outside, though she could not see a blessed thing. The night sky was clouded. Everything was absolutely silent, but she strained her ears for the sound of Penelope's hooves.

_Please come back, Erik_. _Please_.

Time seemed to either tick by slowly, or pass in waves. In actuality, the waves she felt were the fatigue from hour after hour of sickening worry. She struggled valiantly against eyelids that stubbornly refused to stay open. _I'll still hear him coming_, she thought vaguely before unfolding her legs a little and returning the side of her head to the wooden frame. Her senses shut down one by one as she slipped deeper into unwilling sleep, her muscles slacking.

Eventually she felt another presence, another body standing beside hers. She looked up and gasped to see Henri standing beside her

"You should have come with me," he said, a hint of pleading in his voice. "I would have taken care of you. You wouldn't have to be afraid of anything. You would never have to work so hard in your condition—I have servants to see to your every need. We could have as many children as you want, each more beautiful than the next—like their mother."

"No, I'm not…I'm not beautiful," Marguerite said, thinking of Christine. "I can't do this. I love Erik. Despite everything he is, and everything he's done, I still love him."

"But why? He doesn't love you. _I _love you. You know I always have." He leaned close and whispered in her ear. "I won't hurt you the way Marcel did…Or as Erik does now."

"Just go away," she said unconvincingly.

"Get out of this place. Come back to Paris. Come find me." He gently brushed the hair away from her ear, and her breath caught in her chest.

"Please don't torture me…I can't go with you."

"Is this torture worse than what you're already living through?" His smile was earnest.

"Go _now_—please. If you don't leave me be, I…I don't know what I would do. This is more temptation than I can withstand."

"I'll be waiting for you," he said, before fading into darkness.

She heard nothing.

There was no way of knowing how long it was until she opened her eyes again, but it was to greet total darkness. She smelled smoke and wax and realized the candle had just been blown out. That had not been what woke her.

She was being touched, lifted from her seat. For a moment her pulse received such a jolt she thought she would pass out again, but she slapped her hand against the torso before her mind recovered. As she was carried across the room, she gained enough sense to raise a hand to where a face was supposed to be.

She almost cried out loud in relief when she felt Erik's features, but instead leaned further into him and wrapped her arms around his neck, heaving one dry sob.

"_Erik_," she whispered, going once again limp with relief. She kept her mouth closed as they went up the stairs. There was an oil lamp burning in the bedroom, and she could see him a little better. He placed her gently on the bed, but she immediately sat up and leaned against the headboard. "Where…?"

"Marguerite," he said, sounding surprisingly hoarse. He knelt by the side of the bed. "Can you look me in the face and tell me you would honestly bear the burden of a deformed child?"

"Oh, my love," she whispered, reaching out to him again. He took her around the wrist and pinned it to the bed.

"Now is _not _the time for pity," he said, quiet but gruff. "Just answer me. Can you do this?"

She kept her wide eyes on his. "Yes…if it comes to that…"

Erik opened his hand and rubbed her arm. "So be it."

Her hand clenched his tightly. "Are you…Do you really mean that now?"

His eyes were earnest when he said, "Yes. Who else will take care of you when I'm gone?"

"But—"

"I won't live forever, my dear. And I'm already older than you." Marguerite clenched her eyes shut, lowering her head. This was the last thing she wanted to think about in the world. Erik tucked his hand under her chin and tilted it up to make her look at him. His smile was the smallest thing, but welcome. "I have quite some time left, I do believe. For now, sleep…for both your sakes."

"Erik, where did you _go?_" she asked, stretching out on the bed.

"I had a vision, so to speak," he said, leaning over to kiss her cheek. He whispered above her ear, "Marguerite, I love you. I hate myself, but I love you."

She closed her eyes. "Stay here until I'm asleep?"

"Of course." He sang her an old Romany lullaby, but she was deep in slumber before the end.


	6. Rights and Duties

**A/N: She's going to Punjab me for this, but I have to give credit to Nade-Naberrie, my dear fellow-brainstormer and whose wonderful stories I beta (check them out). I really can't write fluff well, so I asked her to write a scene for this chapter, and she helped me out beautifully. I totally forgot which partsshe wrote and what I added...It won't up the rating, but—shrugs—you have been warned.**

**If you still want to tell me what you think the baby's gender will be, just leave it in a review. The birth, by the way, is only the beginning of this story!**

Disclaimer: I don't own _Phantom of the Opera_

* * *

"I can't say I disagree with her," Nadir said, brushing down Cyrus. Erik had taken a sudden break from composing to go down to the stables. The Persian was just bringing Penelope back from a little exercise when he had seen Erik coming from the house. 

The atmosphere was a little tense. All Erik had told him was that they were going to go through with the baby. They did not speak of his discarded plan to change Marguerite's mind, or about his threat to Nadir's life if it was brought to her attention. In fact, Nadir avoided the subject of Marguerite entirely; it was difficult, but quite necessary, though it felt sickeningly as though they were carrying on an affair. He wondered if Erik knew they were hiding something from him, and was merely luring them into a false sense of security. It was hard to imagine Erik _not _noticing something was different, but perhaps they were lucky.

_I really shouldn't have told her_, Nadir thought.

This particular moment, however, well over a week after Erik had returned, he brought up the subject of his wife's pregnancy first. Apparently she wanted to speak to the doctor in _Eaux Froides_, but he was reluctant to take another trip into town. Surely he would eventually go—even if he had _grudgingly _agreed to the child, he would _willingly _make sure she had the best care. The Persian did not have to agree with Marguerite in order to persuade him, but he did anyway.

"What happened when Reza was born?" Erik asked.

"I wasn't in the room." It was cruel of Erik to so casually ask about his child, but Nadir tried to overlook it with a smile. "I couldn't bear to see my wife in that much pain, screaming. Besides, the midwife said it would be better if I weren't there anyway."

Erik laughed. "_You_, a daroga in Persia? You must have seen your share of gore before then."

Nadir narrowed his eyes. "You just wait your turn, Erik. Wait until it's _your_ wife's time."

* * *

Both their spirits were much higher than the last time they had been to town. Erik was still there unwillingly, his mannerisms still cool, but noticeably more skittish. Marguerite was positively buoyant. Though Erik was quiet, he enjoyed it. She had been quite sullen for the past couple days, complaining of nausea and tenderness all over. She knew almost no one in town, but smiled at those who looked up at the carriage passing by. When they turned down another, quieter street and saw a sign that declared a house to be Doctor Jean Busque's residence, excitement coursed through her. At the same time, she prayed that the doctor would find nothing wrong. 

Madame Busque answered the door. Erik held back, looking up and down the street, even though there were few people around. It was the warmest time of day, and Marguerite was feeling the now-familiar, unpleasant queasiness welling up inside her. She smiled shyly.

"Madame," the doctor's wife said, smiling with obvious satisfaction. "I thought I would see you here eventually. That did not take long."

Marguerite looked down at her feet. A few months, and she wouldn't be able to see them. "I suppose you were right after all. I'm here to see the doctor." She turned around. "My husband, Erik. This is Madame Busque, the doctor's wife. I met her the last time we were in town."

"How do you do, madame," Erik said nervously.

"How do you do," Madame Busque said, eyeing his mask without a word about it. "Won't you please come in? My husband is seeing a patient right now, but if you don't mind waiting…Would you care for something to drink?"

Marguerite took a deep breath. "I'm feeling…a bit ill…" In the corner of her eye, she saw Erik's head snap to look at her.

Madame Busque nodded. "Perfectly normal. I know just the thing." She disappeared through a door, and Marguerite turned back to Erik.

"It's not bad, is it?" He shook his head. "I suppose we can sit down…"

"Yes," he said, but made no move to do so.

Resigned, she perched at the edge of a comfortable chair. "Erik, you're making me nervous," she said sharply, surprising him. "Please sit down. No one's going to hurt you here." He finally took a seat, but she could tell he was watching her, and that didn't make her feel any better. Behind another door, she heard muffled male voices. She jumped when the door opened. A man with his arm in a sling and a bandaged neck stepped out, followed by a short, cheerful-looking man with a pointed, graying goatee and spectacles.

"It does look much better," he was saying. "Do come back if it seems to worsen." The man nodded and left. The doctor smiled at Marguerite, but spoke to Erik. "Can I help you, monsieur?"

Erik glared up at him, and Marguerite stood up quickly. Of course a doctor would be especially interested in what he hid beneath a mask. Being a gentleman, Erik stood when she did, significantly taller than the older man.

"It's me, doctor," Marguerite said quietly. "I…I'm…in the family way." Why did she blush?

"Ah," the doctor said, nodding as he glanced up and down her figure. "I see. Well, you can't be very far along. One moment." He ducked back into the examination room and came out with a stethoscope. "Let's see if we can find a heartbeat, shall we?"

Marguerite gasped a little at the idea, and looked up at Erik, smiling broadly. She held her breath as the doctor kneeled and placed the instrument against her lower abdomen. After a few silent moments, the doctor said, "Aha, I think that's it! Here, have a seat and listen for yourself."

Awkwardly she sat down, bending over slightly as the doctor fixed the earpieces in place and guided the bell to the right spot. It took a few minutes of listening and repositioning, and she was feeling a bit discouraged. Then she heard it, muffled, like rapid taps against a bolt of cloth. This was their baby! Their little creation, and she could _hear _it. Swallowing, she looked up at Erik, her eyes bright and infectiously joyful.

"Erik, listen! It's our baby…our baby's heartbeat." She gestured for him to listen, and he did, nodding when he finally heard it. She felt tears in her throat, then coming out of her eyes. "Oh, it's so beautiful…"

To Erik's complete shock, she tore the stethoscope away from him and tossed it at the doctor, covering her eyes with her hands, now weeping openly. He stared at her, completely at a loss. When he looked at the doctor, he just shook his head.

"Women in the family way are often more easily victim of their emotions," the doctor said. "Nothing very unusual, from all the years I have attended women in her condition."

Erik squinted at him. "Have you seen any of them weep after listening to their stomachs?"

The doctor frowned. "I don't think so."

That moment, Madame Busque came into the room, carrying a steaming teacup. She gasped at the sight of the two men standing over the hysterically weeping woman. Setting the cup on a nearby table, she crouched beside Marguerite, placing a hand on her shoulder.

"Oh, my dear, everything will be all right." It could have been the biggest lie ever spoken, they all knew. Anything could go wrong. "Don't cry, madame." She looked up sternly at her husband. "What happened?"

"She heard the baby's heartbeat."

Madame Busque smiled. "Is that what it was?" She turned back to Marguerite. "Dearest, isn't it lovely? Here…I have some tea that will make you feel better. I put ginger in it, that will help with that awful sour stomach you've got." She watched the younger woman take a hesitant sip of the hot beverage, then heave a quavering sigh. "Do you think you're ready for the examination now?" At her nod, she helped Marguerite stand up and led her into the next room, her husband following. Erik hung back a bit, but then took several steps after him.

"Actually, monsieur…" the doctor said.

"If you'd care to wait right out here," his wife said, stepping back into the parlor, "it will not take very long." She cowered slightly at the glare Erik gave her, but then Marguerite cleared her throat and spoke up from inside the examination room.

"Don't stay in here, Erik." She ignored his indignantly offended expression. "Go wait outside. Go buy something." Madame Busque reached out and closed the door, cutting themselves off from each other.

Erik briefly considered attempting to break the door down, but in Marguerite's condition, he was no longer sure how she would react. She could very well simply lose her mind altogether. He paced the room, the minutes crawling by until she emerged again. Her face was rather red, embarrassed at the intrusive exam, but she smiled and said everything seemed normal. The doctor confirmed that declaration. When they paid him, he instructed Erik not to hesitate to come for him when Marguerite's time came.

"Though I hope to see her in here long before then, particularly if you have any concerns." He looked at Marguerite with raised eyebrows, and she nodded. He looked back at Erik. "By the way, monsieur, if I may be so bold…"

Marguerite's eyes grew wide, and Erik's face slackened. They both knew what was coming.

"…as to ask what is beneath your mask?"

Erik's upper lip curled slightly, and he grabbed Marguerite's elbow.

"No, you may _not_," he said. "Good day, _doctor_."

"Thank you," Marguerite said breathlessly as Erik rushed them out the door. She had no idea how she convinced him to linger for a little necessary shopping. Perhaps it was the sudden change of her voice into a low hiss, and the false threat of more tears?

Despite the hormones influencing her thinking, Marguerite knew better than to speak of the incident at the doctor's—or of much else—on the ride home, beneath a wide, darkening sky. She was beginning to feel tired, anyway. At least the tea the doctor's wife made helped a great deal.

* * *

Back home, Marguerite deposited the purchases on the kitchen table. She was beginning to lose the fatigue she had felt earlier, though she still felt achy. Was it really only going to get worse? Tired or not, it was probably time to get a little rest. She went up the stairs, not noticing Erik had followed her until she heard the bedroom door close with a soft click. 

She strode over to the mirror with a sigh, reaching up to unpin her hair, replaying the afternoon over in her head. When his hand closed over her wrist, all air escaped her lungs. Barely catching the dim moonlight, his green eyes glittered eagerly when she caught his gaze in the mirror. He took over the simple task, tossing the pins on the table before running his fingers through her thick mane. She swallowed expectantly as he lowered his face to inhale the scent. His fingertips traveled forward to skirt the delicate skin of her neck, and her muscles weakened beneath his gentle touch.

"Erik," she gasped as his fingers worked a burning trail down her back, unbuttoning her dress as he went. She tilted her head back as he placed soft, taunting kisses near her collarbone. Soon his deft fingers had pried the dress from her, releasing it from her shoulders so it pooled at her feet. With little hesitation, he was busily unlacing her corset, already left a little looser than usual, with her waistline soon to expand significantly.

This was probably the last time she would wear it.

Despite having her lungs freed, the desire burning deep within her made breathing just as difficult. Along with the yearning came a niggling concern, blossoming with equal intensity. She could feel his touch growing rough and demanding, his hands shaking with a desire that matched—and probably surpassed—her own. She did not want to refuse him, but…

She drew in a deep, shuddering breath at the tingle of his hands on her bare back, but thoughts of their unborn baby kept her painfully grounded. With one small gasp, her corset half-undone, she managed to step away from his touch. She flung open the doors to the battered wardrobe, trying to steady her own trembling limbs.

"What are you doing?" Erik asked in mild surprise as she pulled down her nightgown.

"Dressing for bed," she answered, struggling to keep her voice cool. He closed the distance between them and took hold of the garment with one hand.

"I think you're missing the point," he murmured. He grabbed her snugly around the waist with his free hand, her resolve faltering as his lips brushed her ear. He felt every muscle in her body relax, as he knew she would. It would not be much longer before she would completely succumb to his embrace.

"Erik," she objected softly, but there was very little conviction in her wavering voice.

"I love you," he breathed, enveloping the edge of her ear with his warm lips. She shuddered, leaning back into him despite her feeble protests. He nipped at her earlobe, but quickly made use of his tongue to assuage the sting. Without the worry of his wife struggling in his arms, he allowed his hands to roam up and down her torso, reveling in her little moans of pleasure. This room was the only place where Erik knew he would experience victory over her—the _only _place she did not fight him.

Or so he thought.

Her eyes snapped open as his hand absently passed over her belly. Her own hands, still holding the nightgown, had gone limp under Erik's torturously pleasant touch, but now she clenched her fingers around the fabric with renewed vigor. She yanked herself from his grasp.

"Not tonight, Erik," she said, stepping away again.

His voice was dangerously cold when the heavy silence was finally broken. "Who's holding you back from me now, Marguerite?"

She was wondering if he referred to Marcel, or the baby…or even Henri. She felt sickened, suddenly afraid Erik had heard her talking to the younger man in her dreams over a week ago, even if they were words of refusal.

"I just…I don't know if it will hurt the baby, or—"

"Will becoming a father take away my rights as a husband?"

Marguerite's eyes went wide as she turned around to face him again. "Erik, I didn't mean that at all. You know I'm new at this, just as much as you are. I don't know anything! I didn't think to ask the doctor…" Her already flushed face colored even deeper. "Not that I could bring myself. You'll still be my husband in every sense, but you _will _be a father, too. You said—"

"I know what I said." He quickly moved past her to rummage through the armoire for his own nightclothes. "Let it be. I understand now."

Astonished pain and fury chased themselves across her face as she cautiously came closer to him. She did not care much for being interrupted, and nowadays her temper was more easily piqued, almost as badly as Erik himself. "Understand _what_, exactly?" she said to his back, her voice low and tremulous.

Now it was his turn to wheel about and face her again "This child is now your first priority, and from now on, I will be only a secondary concern." He turned his back on her again and lowered his voice, but she heard it anyway. "I just wish I'd had a little more time before I lost you _again_." Though he sounded bitter, his chest ached with physical pain of grief.

Marguerite's racing heart broke, but cold anger wrapped its icy fingers around it and kept the pieces together.

"Do you want me to just ignore it?" she asked, her voice rising to a dangerous pitch. She couldn't seem to stop herself. "I don't have to kill it anymore, but you still want me to pretend this child, _our _child"—she placed her hands on her abdomen—"created out of love, simply doesn't exist?" She let out a sudden, insincere laugh that resounded awkwardly. "Ignoring it will be impossible when I'm too big to get through the doorway!"

He only glared at her, and she took another step forward, bringing her face mere centimeters from his. "Would it make you feel better if I became just like your mother? Would you feel vindicated, then? You seem to be doing a decent enough imitation of her _yourself_."

She knew she had crossed a deadly line. Erik grabbed her by the shoulders, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh. She managed to stifle a cry of pain as he shook her once, his eyes flashing venomously.

"Do not—_ever_—speak to me like that again!" he hissed. The moonlight hit the side of his face, casting the mask into shadow and catching the tears sparkling in his eyes. He released her and silently moved away. As he began to change into his nightclothes, Marguerite could do nothing but watch the shadowed silhouette in guilty, stunned silence.

Her throat and eyes burned with tears, and she did not fight them as they trickled down her cheeks. She couldn't decide whether to feel guilty or enraged. She had been asking for it; she had not only struck the match, but eagerly fanned the flame of her husband's explosive temper. And yet, it was all to protect her little one. The baby would certainly not take Erik's place in her heart, but for heaven's sake, she was a mother now! Erik did not depend on her in the same way this tiny being would once it arrived, or even now, in her womb.

The doctor had said not a word about avoiding intimate relations during her pregnancy. She could not fight Erik every day over this child; the resentment was strong enough already, even if he was allowing it. She loved him too much to make him miserable by constant arguing and withholding herself for seven more months. She wouldn't be too happy with it, either.

Swallowing her tears, she warily put one foot in front of the other until she was close enough to place her hand gently on Erik's tense forearm. He yanked away with a soft snort, but she stubbornly repeated the gesture. Finally he met her gaze, standing to his full height and facing her.

"Don't be angry with me," she pleaded, snaking her hands around his waist. His muscles stiffened as she nestled her head into his bare chest, pressing a kiss to the warm skin. After a moment he sighed in defeat, resting his arms on her back.

"I'm not angry with _you_," he said. She pointedly ignored the insinuation, moving her hands up to his neck and bringing his lips down to hers. Erik hesitated, pulling away briefly to give her a questioning look. Her eyes smiled up at him and she drew him close, brushing her lips against his temple.

"We don't have to—" Erik offered weakly as she kissed the nape of his neck.

"I want to," Marguerite interrupted, surprising even herself with the amount of certainty in her voice. She smiled with her lips this time. "Don't be a martyr." Slowly she ran her fingers down his firm chest, eliciting a soft growl from deep in his throat, before turning her back to him and glancing over her shoulder suggestively. Erik smirked.

"I should tell you, you're beautiful when you're angry," he murmured as he helped free her from the rest of her laces. Her smile widened, but she shook her head.

"You know what?" she asked. She sucked in a deep breath and held it, another warm blush creeping up her neck and cheeks as he unwound the last lace, sliding the corset forward and down her arms.

He exhaled tremulously, bending to place a kiss on her bare shoulder. "No," he whispered, basking in the feel of her bare skin against his. He could never get used to this—or tired of it. "Tell me."

"I…" Marguerite's eyes fluttered closed as the pads of his fingertips probed her waist, turning her to face him. "I can't…can't remember."

His touch softened as he pulled her close, capturing her lips between his. She moaned longingly, opening her mouth to his probing tongue. Erik lifted her to her tiptoes, moving closer to the bed, and she clung to him instinctively, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. His desire for her was now painfully obvious beneath the thin material that separated them, and as she had feared, he grew more frantic as he pinned her down on the mattress and removed the last layers of clothing.

Panic suddenly flooded Marguerite as he looked at her with the eyes of a starving man.

"Erik," she panted between fevered kisses, "please—the baby—don't let—"

He paused, cupping her face and smiling down at her. "Hush," he breathed into her lips, uniting their bodies in one fluid movement. "I won't hurt it."

Marguerite tilted her head back with a breathy sigh, holding him close. "You promise me?"

"Yes. I'll be gentle." She whimpered and clung even more tightly to him, her head against his shoulder. True to his word, Erik held back the fiercest of his passion, rocking gently with her until he collapsed with one last strangled cry of pleasure. He moved to her side, their labored breathing the only sound penetrating the silence of the night.

Marguerite absently wondered if it was possible to die from _feeling _too much inside.

Before her exhaustion became too overpowering, Marguerite reached over and felt for his hand. Entwining their fingers, she kissed his hand before resting it, palm downward, on her belly. In the darkness, she could not see him smile.


	7. Mood Swings

**A/N: I love this story so much. The title of this chapter pretty much speaks for itself. Please go ahead and laugh; some of it is very serious, but if you find any parts funny…most likely they're supposed to be. I get so tired of writing angst all the time!**

Disclaimer: I don't own it!

* * *

Although the child she carried had seized most of Marguerite's thoughts, there was one other topic upon which her mind often dwelled. She never brought up the new things she had learned about her husband weeks ago. She savored the moments when he held her, sang to her; she tried to keep her thoughts only on how happy she was that he had changed his mind about the baby. Too often her thinking rested upon numerous, faceless Persian prisoners—and that Erik's voice was the last thing they heard. She found herself trying to comprehend how tortures could be "entertaining" and "creative." 

Nadir was avoiding her still, but she thought it a rather good idea. Having shared a moment of emotional connection, they now kept conversation to the barest minimum, hoping Erik would never suspect Nadir had revealed anything else of the past. About a fortnight after their trip to town, however, Erik made it difficult for her to keep from telling him what she knew.

Marguerite was returning from the bathroom one night—a rare night when Erik actually slept—when she noticed him moving restlessly as she stepped back into the room.

Holding up a candle, she gasped at the sight of his unmasked face when the light flickered over it. The corpselike half was made worse by his eyes clenched shut in anguish, his lips curling in a grimace. Yet he still seemed to be completely asleep. Shuddering, Marguerite perched on the edge of the bed, her stomach tightening with every groan he emitted. She hesitated to wake him, but the cold sweat coating his body changed her mind. Still grasping the candleholder, she leaned closer to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Erik?"

He jolted fiercely before turning his back to her, mumbling something about mirrors.

_I've never seen anything like what that man can do with a few mirrors_, Nadir had said. Biting her lip, she looked away, staring into the darkness as she tried to think. Suddenly his voice, sounding eerily detached, broke the quiet again.

"Tell the khanum she can stay in that room herself if she's so fond of what goes on inside!"

"Erik?" Marguerite asked, utterly bewildered. Was he dreaming of Persia? What room was he talking about? When he took a deep breath that rattled as though it was his last, her heart leaped into her throat and plunged back down again. She put the candle on the bedside table and nudged his shoulder again.

"_No!_" he shouted, sitting up abruptly as though possessed. Marguerite shrank back, terrified. What she heard next chilled her very breath. "You already chose death, and you shall have it! One night with me, and then freedom, but no, _mademoiselle_, I cannot be endured so long!" He leaned over, head down, bringing his hands to his face.

"Erik!" Marguerite cried from her side of the bed, wary of touching him again. He had to be freed from this terror, but she feared for her own safety, remembering what had happened one other time she had disturbed him from a reverie.

There was a dangerous silence, and his breathing became more ragged as his fingers glided over his face. "_Where is my mask?_"

"It's right here," Marguerite said, trying to sound normal as she picked it up. "But I—"

As though just becoming aware of her presence, Erik turned on her, his eyes wide but unseeing, his gruesome visage more horrific still. Frantically he scrambled for his mask and gripped a handful of Marguerite's hair. "The shah doesn't give second chances! Haven't you seen what they'll do to you, what they'll make _me _do to you?"

Marguerite felt a few hairs part ways with her scalp forever. "Stop it, Erik! I don't know what you're doing, but _stop this!_" The hand gripping her head went slack, and she pushed herself off the bed and against the farthest wall, shaking like an autumn leaf. She intuitively placed one hand over her abdomen. "Wake up! Or _something!_"

He stared at her a moment. Finally he whispered, "Marguerite."

"Oh, thank God," she cried, going to him and wrapping her arms around his neck.

"What…?"

"You were having a nightmare, or—a vision—I'm not sure." She kissed his cheek, caressing his face as though examining it for injuries. "Are you all right now?"

"Yes, but…I don't know what it was."

"Something about what happened in Persia, perhaps?"

"It's hazy," he said. "I don't really—" he cut himself off to look at her more closely, eyes narrowing. "What do you know of what went on in Persia?"

_Damn, damn, damn!_ she thought. "I-I don't, other than the fairy tales you and Nadir have told. You refuse to tell me, so that's how I know it has got to be something terrible. You did say something about…mirrors."

He still eyed her suspiciously, and she held her breath. Contrary to her expectations, he did not say anything more about it, but simply slid out of bed and put on his black robe draped nearby. "Go back to sleep. You need your rest."

Marguerite did not even bother asking him what he was planning to do instead of sleeping. She was too afraid she would say something else that she really hadn't meant to.

* * *

"I think he knows," she told Nadir a few days later, as she was bringing him out a midday meal. She had thought Erik would be with him, but the Persian said he had disappeared into the woods about an hour earlier, without word of when he would return. 

"Thank you," he said before taking a bite of bread and cheese, "but I don't think you should be here, particularly with Erik away. If he came back and saw you…"

"If he can't trust me by now, there's no way I can make him," she said.

Nadir smiled. "But you _are _hiding something from him, my lady."

"True enough. I just—Really, Nadir, I still—I still don't know what to think. Is he really the same man you were speaking of? I've seen the results of his violence, but he claims to have reasons. I can't ignore what he's done, and I can't ignore what you've told me of his past, but if I keep thinking of it…I will have to confront him, and put you in danger—or bottle it inside me, and go mad. And what if it hurts the baby?"

"Erik is not the same today as he was, I will grant you that," Nadir said. "Though I couldn't possibly say just what _has _changed. Perhaps it would be best if you'd forget what I told you."

"I can't!" she gasped. "It helped me to better understand how…how his face and his mind together made things worse for him. But he has love now, and he knows it, and that _has _to have made a difference. That's what gives me hope for him, though I do worry sometimes if it will come back to him—the urge to kill solely for pleasure."

"It was not for _his_ pleasure, madame," Nadir said. Marguerite gave him an unconvinced look. "Not most of it, anyway. I can't say he generally likes the whole of the human race, and I can't say there weren't a few who deserved the results of his—creative endeavors. But he would never hurt _you_, madame, and soon enough that baby, too, will burrow into his heart to stay."

She offered him a sad smile. "Erik had a dream the other night. He wouldn't tell me about it, but in sleep, he spoke. Then he…he woke up—I think—but he didn't know me. He started screaming something about the shah and second chances and"—she swallowed—"I think there was a woman in his dream."

"A woman?"

"Yes. He only addressed her as _mademoiselle_, but he—it sounded as though he had offered her freedom if she…would spend a night with him—but she had refused. She was going to die." Nadir was not looking at her. "What do you know of _that?_"

"Madame, please don't ask me questions.. You've heard too much from me already. Erik has to tell you the rest, if you ask him. If he will not tell you…you will possibly never know. I can no longer be the one."

Marguerite felt the heat of anger flash through her. "After that lovely little speech, you will not say another word about it?"

"No, madame."

His answer was calm and gracious, but that was exactly what set her off. She had come in, concerned for Erik, wanting to know more so she might better understand him. She wanted to know where the nightmares came from. Nadir had all the answers for her, but now he refused to tell her, when he had been spilling his guts weeks before. _Utterly ridiculous_, she thought. Before she could even think of what she was saying, she was spouting heated words that, had it not been for her condition, she would have never considered.

"A _fine_ help you are! All cordial servility, but you keep your mouth shut. I'm trying to help Erik, trying to be the best wife I can for him, and you're too damn busy being _loyal_ to the man to speak a word against him, even if it's for the best! Have it your way, then!" With that last childish discourse, she spun on her heel and returned to the house to furiously begin housework again.

The spare room had to be fixed up a little differently. Their own bedroom had been decorated with things Madame Giry had sent from Erik's home beneath the opera house, but nothing had been done to the second bedroom except a thorough cleaning when they first arrived. Neither of them had expected to use it, but now something had to be done, especially with Marguerite well into her third month. She would have to ask Erik about it when he got back.

He did return a few hours later, rather damp and with an earthy, woodsy smell hanging thickly upon him. Marguerite, unfortunately, was still out of sorts. She had kept herself busy, but when Erik came back, she remembered why she was irritated. As she was cutting up vegetables to use for dinner later, she saw him out of the corner of her eye, standing in the doorway. His hands were full of dirty plants and roots, the results of his time in the wilderness. His trousers were dirtied and his thin shirt slightly tattered from tree branches. However, she did not acknowledge his presence for the first few minutes he stood there.

Curious as to why he was being so obviously ignored, Erik hung back and watched her for those silent moments. He had to smile to himself, just a little. Marguerite's condition may have been playing tricks on her mind, but physically it agreed with her. She moved a little more carefully every day, legitimately fearful of the smallest bump or trip jarring the child she carried. It gave her a slightly more graceful air, especially since she had not grown much yet. However, the weight she had put on took away the slightly emaciated look she'd had ever since…well, as long as Erik could remember. The blackmail she'd been under had taken away her appetite, and then the incident with Marcel and her recovery had done worse. Now that her waistline had thickened just a bit, not to mention the swollen breasts that she claimed gave her so much pain, Erik was beginning to see the benefits of this whole thing.

Finally he crossed the room and set the plants in a basket of others kept by the door. Marguerite stiffened a little when he passed, but remained silent. Finally he came up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. She flinched slightly, and he stepped back a bit.

"You couldn't tell me where you were going?" she asked peevishly.

"I'm sorry," he said in a voice he knew she loved. He reached for her again, but she stepped away.

"Don't _touch_ me," she said, her voice trembling. "I have things to do."

"So do I," Erik said, "but they can wait."

He tried to playfully grab her around the waist, but she whirled on him and pointed the knife, still with flecks of green stuck to it.

"I told you not to touch me!" she yelled. "Just leave me alone, _please_."

"I thought you were upset because I left you for so long today," he said. "And now you want to be alone?"

She just glared at him. "If you won't leave, I suppose _I'll _have to, then!" She threw the knife on the table, sending a few vegetables scattering, and rushed out of the room, her feet pounding up the stairs. Stunned, Erik did not react, even when he heard the bedroom door slam. Finally, with a cry of frustration, he sent a pan across the room. The knife quickly followed and stuck in the opposite wall.

It was a while before she came back downstairs. When she did, Erik was seated at the piano, composing. She stood in the doorway, took a breath, and asked, "Am I permitted in the presence of the great maestro?"

He looked up. "Of course," he said softly, "but you're the one who wanted to be alone in the first place."

She came toward him as she spoke, smiling, "Oh, Erik, please don't be angry with me." Standing behind him, she bent over and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing his cheek. "I'm just being silly." When he turned his head, she pecked him on the lips. "Now play me something," she whispered, moving to sit beside him.

And he could do nothing else. He played a soothing, elaborate French lullaby he presumed she would enjoy. As he watched her eyes close and a drowsy smile play about her lips, he thought it might be a good idea to compose one of his own. That would certainly please Marguerite; she would probably be beside herself with excitement over it. He just did not think he could bring himself to do that just yet.

The lark and the chaffinch  
Wanted to get married,  
But on the wedding day,  
They had nothing to eat.

My Nanon, yes, indeed,  
We'll soon have our wedding,  
My Nanon, yes indeed,  
We'll soon get married.

A rabbit passes by,  
Carrying a loaf under his arm.  
But we have too much bread,  
It's meat that we need!

A crow passes by,  
Carrying a mutton leg in its beak.  
But we have too much meat,  
It's good wine that we need!

A mouse passes by,  
Carrying a barrel under its neck.  
But we have too much wine,  
It's music that we need!

A big rat passes by,  
A violin under its arm.  
Good day to all of you,  
Aren't there any cats here?

Come in, musician, come in,  
All the cats are in the loft.  
From the loft comes down a cat  
That takes the big rat away.

After a long time, when he stopped, she leaned against him, chuckling at the song. In a moment she had composed herself before asking, "What were you dreaming about the other night?"

He stiffened. "I'd rather not discuss it."

"Maybe you'll feel better if you do." He said nothing, and she added, "It was about Persia, wasn't it? You were speaking to a woman. Who was she? Can't you tell me anything about it?"

"I said I don't want to." He swallowed and looked away. "I'm not…ready to tell you. And I don't think you're ready to hear it. Not now, not this way."

Marguerite scowled. "Am I that stupid, that I wouldn't understand?"

"That's not what I—"

"But you can talk to Nadir about it! You can whisper about it to him and confide in him, but not your own wife! Not me, who cares for you so much and only wants to help you heal!"

"Marguerite, he was _there!_"

"And I wouldn't understand a thing about it," she snapped. "Maybe you should have married _him _instead!" She sprang up from the piano bench and went to the front door, wrenching it open and storming out, headed toward her favorite hill.

Erik released a growl of rage and pounded the ivories for a moment. If _any _of them survived this thing, that would truly be a miracle.

* * *

**A/N: The French version of that lullaby, "The Birds' Wedding" or "La Noce Des Oiseaux" can be found at (ignoring the spaces) www. Mamalisa. com/ world/ france. html#birds (if it doesn't show up, there should be a pound sign between "html" and "birds")…just in case you're interested!**


	8. Home on the Range

**A/N: So the first half of this chapter is kind of sad, kind of sweet. Then it gets funny. It was a scene I concocted w/ my Half-Blood Princesses, and there was no way I was NOT going to include it. I'm so sorry, but writing all this angst gets old after a while. Please enjoy it—clasps hands—PLEASE!**

**Oh, yes…and now that I'm back to school, updates will be less frequent. Fear not, I will not abandon it!**

Disclaimer: Yeah, yeah, it's not mine, I know…you know…

* * *

"She came to ask you?" 

"Please don't be angry, Erik," Nadir said quickly. He had certainly not told Erik of what Marguerite already knew, and never would. "You already refused to tell her. I promise you, I informed her she would get nothing from me."

"But I told her about it already. That harem girl the khanum sent me? You _must_ remember that, daroga."

His words were softly spoken. "Of course I do."

"Yes, well…she knew."

"Who knew?"

Erik sighed, annoyed. "_Marguerite_, you fool! I told her about that girl, before we were married. God knows why, but I did. She never brought it up after that, so perhaps she forgot about it, emptied it from her mind, otherwise she should have known I was dreaming about that day. It's the only true thing I _did _tell her about that place."

"Persia is just as beautiful as you've described it to her, Erik. The shah's zoological gardens, the magnificent palace you designed him, the jewels…"

"It's not how I remember it. I have to work very hard to dredge up the _good _memories to tell her, and by now they've run out. All I see now when I think of Persia is…blood."

"I've noticed," Nadir said quietly, trying to change the subject back. "Well, most likely Marguerite was alarmed at how violently you reacted to the dream, and that made her forget its subject." Erik glared at him, inwardly humiliated at having shown such weakness, even when he slept. The Persian cleared his throat tactfully and shrugged. "And of course, her thoughts are mostly concentrated on the baby she carries. Memories will flit in and out of her mind like insects in summer, and you may find her a bit absent-minded at times." There was a pause. "_How much _did you tell your wife about her?"

"Am I to remember everything? It was enough, whatever it was."

"Perhaps, from what you said in your sleep, she could not tell which mademoiselle you were speaking to." This earned him another angry stare from Erik's direction.

"She distinctly asked me about Persia. And I _was _dreaming about that day."

"You should talk to her about it, Erik. Get it out in the open."

He shook his head. "Not yet. Not with her in this condition. After the baby comes…maybe."

"On that note," Nadir began again, "what about Christine Daae?"

Erik's head snapped up, and his eyes clouded over. "What about her?"

"How much does Marguerite know about her?"

"Why in hell do you have to pry so much? What does it matter to you? How _dare_ you tell me what I should discuss with my own wife!"

"I only want to see your spirit settled, my friend. Marguerite deserves to know the truth about everything regarding her husband. She's given you everything. Don't you know what a challenge you are to a young woman like her? And now she carries your child. The least you can give her is yourself…all of yourself, including your past."

"She already knows about Christine. Almost all there is to know. Believe me in this, daroga."

"Very well. But if I'm still around when that baby comes…Rest assured, I still consider myself your conscience, Erik. I don't want to see you hurt your wife, however unintentionally. And as much as you probably despise having to hear this…you need her." He nodded, punctuating his own words. "I'll make sure you keep your word. However long it takes for you to tell her…you _will _tell her."

"It's none of your concern," Erik said, gritting his teeth. It was the only thing he could think of to say after all that. Nadir just smiled.

* * *

There were weeks when whole days seemed to pass too frequently to notice. On other days, the hours crawled by slowly, leaving Marguerite physically and emotionally distressed, and often bored, even when she tried to keep herself occupied. Meanwhile, she grew in size and nervousness. Erik was concerned, and though he tried to keep his composure, too often he failed miserably. Nadir, the most experienced in these matters, tried to reassure both parties, although he took more frequent trips to town. 

Just when Marguerite finally seemed to get her bearings and settle into the role of mother-to-be, there came a day when she went into enormous leaps from laughing to crying and back again in the course of an hour. It got so bad that once or twice Erik truly feared she had lost her mind, and made her lie down for the rest of the day. Eventually he had gotten, not quite _used to_ the frequent bouts of emotion, but came to expect them.

One day, however, she sent Erik into a rage that drove him from the house, lest he forget himself completely and destroy too much to replace.

She had stood in the middle of the room as he sat at the piano, writing down the music more than playing it. After watching him for a few minutes, she spoke. Had she not been with child, she would have been in a state of mind which allowed her to recognize that Erik did not want to be disturbed with trifling conversation.

"Have you received word from Madame Giry about your pieces she was supposed to have published?"

"No," he said shortly. He played five chords, his fingers lingering on the keys as his ears soaked up their sound, mulling it over in his head. Finally he wrote them down as well, without another word or so much as a glance at Marguerite. When she stepped close enough to read, he quickly turned over the papers.

"I can't ever look," she murmured.

"I can never let an unfinished piece be seen."

"Can't I take just a peek? I don't see why—"

"No. You wouldn't understand."

Prickled, she stood straighter. "You think I'm stupid, then?"

"No, I never said that, nor did I imply it. You can hear it when I've finished it."

"Why bother?" she said, irritated now at having been refused. "_No one_ ever sees it, finished or not! You _write_ and _write _and _write_, and what good is it for? _Nothing!_" Fuming, she watched Erik meet her eyes with fire in his own. She should have recognized the danger, but she reached out and grasped a handful of papers, wrinkling them badly.

"You do _nothing _with it, and no one hears it but me. Why bother?" She tossed them into the air, and as they floated down like enormous feathers, Erik stood up so quickly he knocked the bench over. For a moment, her mind cleared, and she was terrified when she saw the look on his face. With a shuddering gasp, she turned and fled upstairs, slamming the door behind her. Two seconds later, she heard the front door bang shut. Through the window, she saw Erik storming off into the woods.

_What have I done?_

Hours later, he returned to see his music papers stacked neatly, face down, and the piano bench upright once again. Upon them was a little note that read,

_My Beloved Erik,_

_My condition has affected me in unexpected ways, but that does not justify a complete lack of self-control_. _Do with your genius what you wish, and I will not question it_. _I only hope you can forgive me for speaking so cruelly_. _Your anger still boils even now, I'm sure, but I hope you realize I truly meant none of it_. _It was an awful thing to say_._ I am in great distress, and want to release it upon the person closest to me, and my darling, I'm afraid that is you, however unreasonable that may be_. _Please do not hold this against me_. _I wish I could promise it will never happen again, but I am unable to do so_. _However, until things settle down a bit, I will do my best_.

_Marguerite_

_P_._S_. _Your papers are stacked neatly, but not in order, as I did not take one peek_.

The stark, almost childish plea for forgiveness quite nearly broke him. How often had he completely lost his temper with her? Yet never had he apologized with such remorse as she did.

Clutching the note in his hand, he went to the other end of the house to find Marguerite sweating over the stove, stirring something. Her eyes were two wet, gray pools of anxiety when she saw him in the doorway, but when he crossed the floor and pulled her into a tight, desperate embrace, she relaxed and knew she was forgiven.

The next time Nadir was in town, he brought them a letter from Madame Giry. Erik's pieces had been published anonymously, the money placed into his last remaining Paris account.

* * *

Marguerite's weight gain had grown more rapid, and by the fourth month her condition was undeniable. She felt frantic to get everything ready, even though there was considerable time left. Though her condition rendered a trip to town scandalous, she risked it to obtain cloth to make curtains and bedsheets, things she could not entrust to the men. She chose a pale yellow theme, thinking it would be suitable for either a boy or a girl. 

Once another few weeks passed, bouts of insecurity came. After the baby was born, would Erik come to only see her as a frazzled, dowdy matron? The warmth of summer provided no ease. When she sat inside to escape the heat, sewing or simply fanning herself, panting and glistening in the stiff air, she felt perfectly repulsive. She kept herself from asking Erik about it, realizing that she would probably explode into a rage at his answer, whatever it was.

Unfortunately for the Persian, he fell ill to an untimely cold and was confined to his room above the stables. He had nowhere to go when Erik barged in to escape his "deranged" wife. Even so, Marguerite fixed him meals and Erik made him medications, using herbs, roots, and other plants he had found in the area. Nadir took it with neither hesitation nor complaint, already familiar with Erik's tonics and medical knowledge. It was only too bad, the Persian thought, that Erik did not seem to know enough of women to know how to sufficiently deal with his wife.

By the end of the summer, however, Erik seemed more open to Nadir's advice. When the Persian offered to grant him some, he no longer brushed him off and declared himself fully able to handle it himself. Rather, one day, after bringing Nadir more tonic, he shocked his friend by saying, "You had better come out with that advice before you get worse and die."

Nadir laughed until he coughed. "I'm not nearly so far gone. Besides, you won't let that happen." Erik watched impatiently until Nadir said, "You must keep an eye on what Marguerite eats. Not that she's irresponsible, but she must eat well for the baby's sake—fresh, nourishing foods."

"Naturally," Erik said.

"Vegetables, you know, good bread, and milk, particularly. You can buy it all in town."

"Very well, then," Erik said, turning away. Merde,_ I should have been doing that already_. "I'll see to that first thing in the morning." He looked back at Nadir. "Seeing as you're too damn feeble to be any good around here." Nadir watched him go, smiling as he lay back down on his mattress.

The next day, though the Persian had significantly improved, Erik still went to town himself. Marguerite took a bowl of soup down to Nadir, along with the potion Erik had left with her, feeling guilty when she felt the hot, stifling air of his room. He must have been very uncomfortable, but never once complained to her.

Afterward, she went back to cleaning, with frequent rests. That afternoon, she went up her favorite hill to watch the sunset. When she turned around and looked in the direction of _Eaux Froides_, she saw Erik, astride Penelope, slowly emerging from the trees with two large shapes in tow. She squinted, unable to believe her eyes. It couldn't be…

One hand pressed to her stomach, she hurried down the hill to where he was approaching the stables. She cut him off before he got there. Sure enough, he was holding a rope that led to the neck of a brown and white Guernsey. Behind her tottered a calf. It turned its enormous, curious brown eyes onto Marguerite, and she was unexpectedly reminded of Christine.

"Erik, what is this?" she asked, staring up at him.

He blinked at her. What did it look like? "A cow…and her calf."

"_Thank _you, professor. What are you _doing _with them?"

He gave her a slight smile. "A woman with a child on the way should have fresh milk."

"Fresh milk. Erik…do you know how to milk a cow?"

His eyes narrowed. "How difficult can it be?"

"Well _I_ certainly can't give lessons. Do you _see_ this?" She indicated her expanding belly. "My back hurts sitting as it is, and it will only get worse. Am I to hunch over at a little stool, milking for hours on end?"

Erik closed his eyes and sighed. "No. I'll do it, of course. A bit of _gratitude_ would not be uncalled for, you realize."

She blinked at him a few times before finally saying, "Thank you." The cow let out a long, low moo. "Did I ask you?" She turned back to Erik. "And might you tell me why you bought the calf, too?"

He shrugged. "I could not very well separate them, could I?"

"Oh…naturally, you could not," she said sarcastically, folding her arms.

Just at that moment, the bovine and offspring turned their heads toward the stables. Marguerite and Erik followed suit, seeing Nadir approach, Beatrice close behind. He looked flushed and a bit on the weak side, but the look of bewilderment on his face was all they really noticed. Slowing his steps as he came closer, his eyes bulging, he opened his mouth as though trying to speak. After a few unsuccessful tries, words finally came out.

"Allah, Erik, what have you done?"

Erik clenched his teeth. "Does _no one _appreciate my efforts?" he hissed. "I'm only following _your _advice!"

"I said _milk_, Erik, not a whole bloody _cow!_" He sighed. "Must you always make things so complicated?" The men glared at each other for a moment before he spoke up again. "Did you happen to learn how to milk one in Persia? Or with the gypsies, perhaps? It was certainly never part of _my _duties as daroga." He glanced inquiringly at Marguerite, who took a step backward.

"I lived in the middle of a small town before we moved to the upper class of Paris. What would I know about taking care of any livestock?"

Erik was exasperated beyond endurance. He gave Penelope a light kick in her sides and rode on to the barn, the cows following after. Still stunned, Marguerite and Nadir watched him dismount and lead the animals inside.

"I can't watch this," she said, turning and going back up to the house. Nadir stood and stared at the dark doorway of the barn for a while before following Erik.

Half an hour later, Marguerite was drying a pan when her husband barged into the kitchen without bothering to close the door. His trousers were soaked up to the knees, his hair disheveled, and his expression was incredible aggravation. Even so, Marguerite had to contain her laughter until he spoke.

"Let me have a mug."

She froze with the dishcloth still in the pan. "What for?"

"For you to drink from."

"You're going to milk it into a little _cup?_"

"That damned animal kicked over the bucket and almost broke my foot! That's all the milk I'll be getting out of her tonight. How much more do you need at once, anyway?"

Marguerite had no way of concealing her disgust then. "Do you mean for me to drink it straight from the cow?"

"What else is there to do with it?"

"I don't know! There has to be something in-between…"

With a soft growl, Erik slammed the back door closed, storming through the other doorway, muttering, "I have to have a book on zoology somewhere…"

In her astonishment and confusion, Marguerite barely heard Nadir enter, until he sneezed.

"There you are, madame," he said, smiling kindly and setting a full pail of milk on the table. "Perhaps it should cool overnight."

She shook her head in disbelief. "Hopefully Erik will, too. You better go back to bed and pretend to have a relapse."

* * *

**A/N: Danielle...You know you owe me big for this, right? squinty Erik eyes**


	9. The Time Approaches

**A/N: In case you think there's an inconsistency with Marguerite's age, I actually went back and changed it a long time ago in "Piercing" so that she's a bit older. So no, I'm not insane. If you started reading "Piercing" after I made that change, ignore everything I just said.**

**I'm sorry this took forever to be posted, it seems, but things are absolutely insane right now as I go back for yet another year of college. It's going to be a good one, but busy, and fanfiction is going to have to be dropped pretty low on my priority list. Again, I'm not going to abandon it, but other things must take precedence.**

**Also, my apologies for the silliness of the previous chapter. It had to be done.**

Disclaimer: …

* * *

"I still say it's so unfair," Marguerite said many weeks later, reaching out to stroke the animal's damp, velvety nose. Erik had secretly named her Carlotta, after a different cow. "You men have your horses, and I get the cow."

"You have _two_," Erik said, slightly petulant.

"What will happen after the baby comes, and when she stops giving milk?"

"Veal?" Nadir suggested.

Erik and Marguerite both turned to him with horrified looks. He shrugged and went back to mucking out Cyrus' stall. Suddenly, Marguerite gasped, taking a couple abrupt steps backward. She looked at Erik with enormous eyes, her breath quickening.

Thinking she was having a _very_ delayed reaction, Erik asked, "What is it?"

"Quick!" She came closer to him and grabbed his hand, placing it over her expanded abdomen. "Can you feel that?" He frowned, and she sighed in annoyance. "_Wait_."

Trying not to laugh, Nadir cleared his throat and turned his back on the couple. Even so, he could feel Erik's gaze upon him, daring him to make another sound. Erik sighed and looked questioningly at Marguerite. Her eyebrows scrunched together. "Can't you feel that?"

"No," he said flatly. He had lost count how many times she had done this in the past few weeks.

"It's _moving_! Our baby is moving." She clutched his hand more tightly. "Oh, I'm so thrilled! This is our child, Erik." Tears sprang to her eyes.

_Not again_, he thought. Gripping her hand right back, he said, "It's getting too cool to be out here, and you need your rest." She made no sound, but only curled her upper lip slightly, irked at her baby being ignored by its father as he led her out of the stables.

"It's not _that _cold out," she said sullenly as they stepped out into the fading autumn sunshine. She yanked her hand from his as they entered the house and went to the sitting room, picking up her sewing and settling on the couch with a groan. For a few awkward minutes, he observed her frantically sewing.

"What has upset you?" he asked, perhaps a little too harshly, coming to stand before her.

"I wish you were a little more excited about this," she muttered, poking the needle through the cloth with such force that the tip went into her own skin. With a cry of pain, she released her sewing and held up her hand; one drop of bright red blood glistened on the end of her finger. "Oh, what _next?_" She hastily wiped it on her skirts.

"Let me see," Erik said, sitting beside her. "It's nothing at all." He pressed the tip of her finger to his lips.

"The only time you're good to me is when you _know _I'm out of sorts," she said. "Any other time, you just don't care either way. I suppose I know in my heart that you don't really want this baby, but I only wish…I wish you would be good enough to lie and say you do."

"You always wanted the truth," he pointed out. She glared at him. "Is this all that's made you angry?"

Silence hung between them like a thick curtain. Finally she sighed and said, "I'm twenty-one."

Erik cocked his head as though he had heard a strange sound elsewhere, and furrowed his brow. "I thought…Since when?"

"Sometime in the spring."

"You don't know when your birthday is?" he asked in surprise.

"Of _course_ I know when it is—May nineteenth. I just don't know what day _this_ is. I haven't known much about the passage of time since…" She swallowed. "Since that night…with Marcel. My birthday passed, and I never knew which day it was. Obviously, since it's autumn now, the day's long gone. I just…" She wiped her shimmering eyes and folded her arms over her stomach. "Oh, I don't know. But I've been thinking about it lately. I suppose it's the baby coming that has me thinking of it."

"Marguerite," Erik whispered remorsefully. "I never knew."

"No…no you didn't. You didn't have any reason to. I never told you. Perhaps if I wasn't already so disheartened, it wouldn't matter."

"I'm so sorry." He reached out to stroke her cheek, but she turned away.

"Don't touch my face, Erik. I'm absolutely repulsive right now." She patted her own skin. "It's dry and blotchy. I don't know what's happened to me."

Erik gently removed her hand to place it upon his mask. "I can think of something much worse."

Her eyes widened, and she spread her fingers over the cool, smooth surface. "Oh, Erik. I'm so sorry." She swallowed. "I forgot."

"Lucky for you, you can," he said, resentment thickening his voice.

"I mean, I…I didn't think about it. I don't…hardly ever anymore." She smiled gently. "I told you before that it's not so very important."

Erik looked down at her belly, and rested his hand on it. "You have other things to occupy your mind."

Amazingly enough, the child inside of her chose that particular moment to make itself known. Marguerite smiled as she felt the tiny form shifting, wishing Erik could sense it as well. When she looked up at him again, his lips were parted, and disbelief was obvious in those green eyes. Marguerite's heart fluttered, her breath becoming shallow, when he silently placed his other hand over her stomach as well, watching intently. He felt it, too.

"Is this—?" he asked, unable to finish.

"Our baby."

He didn't think it could get more real than this. Marguerite's physical condition, her moods, and any thoughts he had about becoming a father were all just strange occurrences up until now. However, it was past yet another point of no return. There was no way, now, to push the baby into the back of his mind. He was as close to touching the child as was possible before it was born. It was going to drive him to madness, he thought, to have this barrier between himself and this tiny life inside Marguerite. There was no denying it now. She would have to take great care that this child would be safely delivered into the world—_he_ would have to make sure of that.

He met Marguerite's eyes, and she was stunned at what she saw. The plea was obvious. _Please don't give me this responsibility_, he was saying. She took his hand with surprising strength.

"You can do this," she whispered. "You have to, and you can. Just think of everything you never had, and everything you've ever wanted…and do that."

She had never known all his pain, all the cruelty he'd had to endure, and might not even be able to comprehend some of it. But she could sympathize in the smallest way possible. She had already faced more than he would have wished for her, and even though he had never witnessed a human birth—only heard the painful screams from gypsy tents—he knew she was in for yet another terrible ordeal. He could have rescued her from it, but no…she wanted to endure, she wanted to go through it.

_Perhaps she's stronger than I am,_ he thought. _I would be finding the quickest, easiest route out of it all_. _She is no coward, that much has already been proven_.

"I want to be a good mother," she said. "I want to be the mother that my own tried to be, the kind you never had. And I want you to be the kind of father neither of us had."

"Your father loved you," Erik said. "From where I watched…I could tell."

"Certainly not enough." There was no bitterness in her voice, but just a touch of regret.

"No, I don't imagine so."

She smiled sadly. "Is there ever enough?"

"In my case." He leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers, testing the waters to see how much she would allow. "In my case, there's too much." When she frowned, he cupped her face. "You know I don't deserve you."

She reached up and wrapped her fingers around his wrists. "Oh, Erik, I'm so difficult. Especially now. I may behave as though I'm completely oblivious to it, but I know I'm very trying. Why do you love me at all?"

She was insane, Erik was thinking. _I should be the one asking that question_. "Because you dug yourself a hole in my heart, and wouldn't get out."

She laughed at that. "I daresay this little one will do the same." Nothing else was spoken for a while. She yawned, and Erik sat up straighter.

"Do you need to go to bed?" he asked.

"It's very early." She stretched out her legs a little, and that prompted him to stand. "I'll just lie here. I don't feel like going up any stairs just yet." She tucked her right arm under her head as she turned over to her side. She looked reasonably comfortable, but Erik felt at a loss, needing something to do.

"What do you want it to be?" she asked, idly stroking her stomach.

He knelt beside the sofa. "A human."

She sighed and closed her eyes. "Yes, I can promise you that much. I don't know, I think a little Erik would be interesting. Perhaps it would show me what you were like as a child." She opened one eye to see his expression of disgust. "Then again, _you're _quite a handful yourself already."

"I was demonic," he said.

"Oh, of course," she said sarcastically.

"I'm being very serious."

"Well, I suppose it depends," she said. She sighed again, this time in disappointment. "If only the baby would be here before _Noël_. That would be the best present I could receive."

"It won't?"

"No, not for another month after that, I think."

"I see."

Her expression grew quite thoughtful. "Erik?" She reached out, and he took her hand, interlacing each others' fingers. "I know you'd rather stay hidden. I know you would prefer to be away from all humanity, living in the darkness beneath the _Opera Populaire_. You left because of me, and _for _me. Don't think I haven't appreciated it every moment of every day. This is not your first choice, and I can't tell you how grateful I am for what you've done." _I'm not your first choice_.

She swallowed back the tightness in her throat. "I couldn't remain in Paris. There was too much pain, and…I was too scared." _And I couldn't bear to see you kill again, and had we stayed there, I know you would have_. She thought of the dreams she still had, once in a while, of Henri. He still beckoned to her, asked her to come to him in Paris and find him and live happily ever after. Each time she refused, and each time, his voice grew more desperate, more yearning. He never _did _anything, he only begged.

She could not bear to tell Erik, but she did look him in the face and say, "I won't go back. I _won't!_ I never want to see the inside of that city for as long as I live."

Concerned at her sudden vehemence, Erik urged her to relax. At her request, he called for Beatrice so Marguerite could pet her. The cat always seemed to help soothe her, even better than himself, he thought ruefully.

"Is it true what cats do to babies?" she asked thoughtfully, scratching behind Beatrice's ginger ears. "Sucking out their breath, and all? It never made much sense to me."

"A vicious rumor, and nothing more," Erik said, thinking of Ayesha, who he had lost a year or two after Christine.

"You wouldn't hurt our baby, would you, Beatrice?" she said to the cat in a sing-song voice Erik had never heard her use before. Inwardly he cringed, imagining that it would be heard all the time when the child arrived.

_Good lord, that baby will grow up to be an idiot if it hears that constantly_.

* * *

The days grew shorter, the weather colder, and Marguerite larger. Erik tried to confine her to bed, and she wanted to get up and move. Though it pained her, she hated to sit still for very long. Soon frost and lack of daylight severely impaired her mobility, and she kept herself busy around the house, despite Erik's insistence she rest. By the end of the day, her hands and feet were so swollen she could barely put them to use, and she was ready to collapse, constantly feeling overbalanced. Most of the time, however, her stumbling was caused by turning around suddenly to find Erik close behind her, watching her every move.

She had passed up Easter, and her birthday, and God only knew when Erik's birthday came and went. Christmas, however, could not be overlooked, though she had not a single idea what to do on that day, or in preparation for it. Nadir, being neither French nor any kind of Christian, would have never celebrated the holiday, and so he was not one to ask. Afraid of dredging up further memories from his tormented childhood, Marguerite could not inquire of Erik how, or even _if_, he had ever celebrated the holiday.

Last year…Oh, dear.

Last year she had been quite the child, yet attempting to prepare herself for a quickly approaching life as an aristocratic Parisian bride. She had gone to skating parties and balls, feasts and carol-singings, all to avoid Marcel and catch the eye of a more worthy gentleman. It had not been long before she realized that the love of her life was partaking in none of these activities. As she sat before the blazing fireplace and sewed, she chuckled at herself when she remembered bringing Erik a Christmas dinner, half charity and half a peace offering. He had received it with great rudeness, and she threw one of the proffered apples at him.

Hopefully this year would not be a repeat of that day.

If only she were not so confined and physically limited! She might have been able to scrounge up something with which to surprise him—something cheerful and fitting to the occasion—but there was little that could be done. Soon the weather would be too ghastly to ask Nadir for a trip to town to fetch supplies and cooking ingredients. Erik certainly would not go, although he handled the horses a bit better than his friend. He barely left Marguerite alone for minutes at a stretch, as time inched closer and closer to the arrival of their little one.

_Our first Christmas, and you won't be here yet,_ she thought, silently addressing the baby, her hand absentmindedly stroking her belly as Erik played music one evening. Suddenly her body was gently seized, and she gasped, louder than she would have wanted. Erik's fingers came off the keyboard, his body left the bench, and he was beside her in an instant.

"What's going on?" he demanded.

It was not the first time she had felt one of these false contractions, but she had not told Erik about it, knowing he would take it too seriously. "I'll be all right," she said. "It's not time yet. It's just…testing. It happens, I think."

"You need to lie down." It seemed to be his answer for everything. Without waiting for her response, he stood up and grasped her hands, helping her to her feet, and led her to the stairway.

"So help me, Erik, if you try to carry me, I'll—"

"Very well. Just come up slowly."

"Lying down is even more uncomfortable than standing," she grumbled, going up the stairs one at a time.

"You can't overexert yourself."

"So sayeth the expert." One of his hands came to the small of her back for support, and she sucked in her breath, heat spreading out from the place he had touched. _Good lord, no, this is not the time_. It seemed like an eternity before she was settled on the bed, feeling as ungainly and hideous as she had ever felt in her life.

"I feel like a cow myself," she said. "I never thought I could get so big." She turned and bent her limbs, twisting herself as much as her shape would allow. There really was no such thing as a comfortable position, but she finally lay on her side, one arm draped over her stomach. For a moment Erik hesitated, then stretched out beside her.

"You're lovely," he said, placing a gentle kiss on her mouth.

Her eyes fluttered closed, and she smiled. "Now, that…is a very sweet lie."

* * *


	10. For Everything There Is A Season

**A/N: You know, filler really is a pain to write. I just hope it doesn't seem that way to you. I'm sorry, again, that it took this long to put up. Is this the longest I've ever taken, I wonder? Oh, well. Hopefully you…erm…enjoy it. **—**evil grin**—

Disclaimer: BLAH!

* * *

When snow had finally coated the ground and seemed intent on staying there until the end of the season, Erik possessed mixed feelings about it. With the kind of life he had led between Christine's departure and Marguerite's appearance, the confinement of weather really did appeal to him. Like the fifth cellar of the _Opera Populaire_, the snow kept the rest of humanity out, and he was like a creature in his den, separated from the world, just the way he wanted. Only Marguerite's company was acceptable. Nadir's…sometimes. Unfortunately, Marguerite did not like the weather nearly as much as he did, and with the last month or so of her pregnancy, she was impatient and discontented. He had to work very hard to keep up his own endurance, and tried to bear in mind that it was not _really_ him that irked her. 

In actuality, Erik _was _the cause of some of her frustration, with his constant hovering and personally established medical advice. That was a shame, really, he thought, that in her condition, she did not have the presence of mind to appreciate it. But he had to watch over her, and she was _not _going to catch him off-guard whenever anything should happen. More often, he found her deep in prayer, oftentimes pleading for _him_, when she was the one who had to be nurtured.

Despite her restlessness, her wide fluctuation in moods had eased, and she was in much better spirits, at least on a day-by-day basis. However, one day her mood took a more melancholy turned and did not improve as the week continued.

Was she really that serious about celebrating Christmas? He could not remember a time when he had done so himself. His mother probably went to mass, but of course never took him with her. Once he was on his own, he had no idea about the holiday, when it passed or what _normal _people did in celebration. Up until now, he had never cared. He _still _did not. But then, did he, perhaps, owe Marguerite something? Should he ask her if she had anything in mind? He would have rather let the day pass like any other, but he hated seeing her so miserable, especially with the baby coming very soon.

Before long it was just about a fortnight until _Noël_, and did she realize it? They were isolated from the town, or at least would be soon. They had enough supplies to make it through a snowstorm, but the knowledge that they might have to do so was probably not at all agreeable to her. It certainly sounded so to Erik.

"What would you want to do, if we were in Paris, with any number of supplies and shops at your fingertips?" he asked her one afternoon as they sat together on the settee and stared out the window.

She sighed. "I should like to make a wreath…or at least try. I'd set up a nativity scene, with a little manger, and put candles around it. Last year, there were skating parties, and we sang carols around the fire and the piano, and we trimmed trees and danced and went to feasts. It was such fun, and bright and cheerful, and…it was beautiful." She smiled sadly. "None of that can happen now, except perhaps singing Christmas carols, and I expect you don't know any."

He cocked his head and smiled briefly, challenge flashing in his eyes. He did so hate to be told he was unable to do something "Demonstrate."

"What do you mean?"

He stood and moved to the piano. "Sing me one."

From her expression, one might have thought he had asked her to give a solo before an audience of ten-thousand. "All right, then," she finally said, uncertain. "If you really think you might—"

"_All _great composers can improvise," he said.

She took a deep, shaky breath and softly began the first one she could think of.

_Douce nuit, sainte nuit!_

_Dans les cieux! L'astre luit_.

_Le mystère annoncé s'accomplit_.

_Cet enfant sur la paille endormit,_

_C'est l'amour infini,_

_C'est l'amour infini!_

From those faltering words and her attempt to sing it in her most comfortable range, Erik's fingers glided and skipped over the keys and produced a perfect rendition. Marguerite laughed joyfully and clapped her hands like a child.

"Oh, Erik, that was the most beautiful version I've ever heard!" Her smile widened, the familiar sparkle returning to her eyes. "Can you teach me to sing it properly?"

He smiled. "You're the one who knew it already."

"Yes, but you know what I meant. It would sound so much better with your improvements. It does already! I daresay you've already done wonders for me, considering the way I sang before I even knew you."

With another lingering glance at her belly, he shook his head. "You cannot overexert yourself."

She frowned. "I cannot so much as _breathe_ without you observing it closely to make sure it is suitable, and that I'm not 'overexerting myself.'"

"That's because you're not breathing just for yourself anymore."

Closing her eyes, she shook her head. "Oh, you are _impossible_ sometimes."

* * *

"They will probably be quite nice without paint," Nadir said kindly enough, watching Erik carving biblical figures out of wood. Though he took great care in their detail, he would drop them as soon as they were finished, as if he could not bear to hold them for too long. Though perhaps he was not one to say, Nadir thought the Virgin's face bore a passing resemblance to Marguerite. None of the male figurines—Joseph, the shepherds, or the Magi that were not finished yet—looked like Erik at all. Perhaps he was only imagining things. 

The manger was carved, but still empty.

"Damn them," Erik muttered under his breath. "Curse them all."

Nadir did not ask who he meant, quite sure he did not want to know. He just stood back and let Erik concentrate on his work.

Erik had come to this idea shortly after Marguerite described her old Christmases for him. Her recollections had sparked some thought, and Erik found himself wanting to do something for her, something that would bring back more pleasant memories. It pained him that he could do very little. A year ago, he had been miserable and brooding in his house beneath the opera, living day by day on whatever scrap of information Marguerite could bring her about Christine. When she had brought him his own small, belated Christmas dinner, he passed it off as charity, and treated her with careful indifference.

_God, You must have been punishing her by making her marry me_. _What a horrible way to treat her, when she loves You so much_.

What harm could there be in trying to cheer her up? He was out of his element, to be sure, but was this not an excellent opportunity to further demonstrate his love, and his concern? For days, he had thought upon something that could be done easily, under their circumstances, with their means. At last an idea came to him, but it would be difficult. He would have to stay away from Marguerite for longer stretches of time than he had been doing, yet he still wanted to keep an eye on her. So when she napped—an occurrence, he constantly insisted upon—he went out to the barn and built a small nativity scene for her.

The last time he had done work like this was when he constructed a small replication of the stage in the _Opera Populaire_, with figures of every opera's characters, special care taken with the ones meant to represent Christine. He had planned all his malevolent mischief there, and his drastic plans to make Christine a star, the prima Donna, a voice to be heard around the world. Now he was creating something for the pleasure of his wife, a woman who was definitely _not_ Christine Daae.

How times changed. What would Christine have been like if he had kept her with him instead, if she had become his wife and carried their child? Would she have snapped at him and argued so much? Would she have been so quick to apologize if she did? Something in Erik's abdomen tightened when he wondered if Christine would have fought him tooth and nail for the life of her unborn child, or agreed to get rid of it early on, no questions asked, with not a note of her voice raised in protest. Would she have even clashed with him on anything at all?

Could he have actually wanted it that way?

Indeed, it was something to think about. But there really was no point in doing so. With some difficulty, he pushed Christine out of mind and concentrated on his woodworking.

* * *

On Christmas Eve, long after Marguerite was asleep, Erik remained alert and excruciatingly restless. The nativity scene was finished—the Christ child carved with all manner of reluctance—so he set it up in the window, arranging a few candles on either side of it. He would light them in the morning, before she came back downstairs. He went out and in the chill and the darkness cut down a few branches of an evergreen tree and arranged them over the doorway and several windows. How fortunate they had seen to the house's repairs early on in the summer! 

He sat at the piano and stared at the notation he had written down of the Christmas carols she had sung for him. Picking up a pencil, he began to elaborate on their themes until they were lengthy, complex compositions. This activity kept him up for the rest of the night. He was unable to play them and make sure they were correct, at risk of awaking Marguerite, but he knew. He heard it inside his mind, and it was quite flawless.

Soon enough the morning hours arrived, though the sky was still in the throes of winter's darkness. With nothing left to do, he lit the candles and went upstairs to wait for her to wake up.

To his dismay, Marguerite's slumber did not appear pleasant or sound. She dozed with her eyes shut tightly, in a manner that wrinkled her forehead and brought her eyebrows low. The corners of her mouth were turned down. One hand, usually draped lovingly over her stomach, was clenched around it, as though it pained her, or perhaps to more aggressively protect what was behind it.

"Marguerite," he whispered, reaching out to take that hand. She jerked as she awoke, her eyes snapping open. For a moment, they stared blankly into the darkness before she jerked her hand away from him and struggled to sit up. Her eyelids fluttered, and her expression softened.

"Good morning, Erik," she said, smiling weakly.

"What were you dreaming about?"

Alarm flashed in her eyes before she could catch herself. "Nothing important. It's slipping away now, I can't…can't remember."

It took a few moments for Erik to decide it was not worth pursuing. "_Joyeux Noël_," he finally whispered.

Her expression slackened. "Is it?" Shoulders slumping, she lowered her head. "Oh, Erik…"

Taking her hand again, he said, "Come downstairs."

"Is it really necessary? I don't feel much like getting out of bed yet," she said grumpily.

"Try," he said, impatience sparking somewhere inside him. She heaved an exaggerated sigh and allowed him to help pull her up to her feet and lead her to the top of the stairs. "Easy now," he said. It was a variation of what he said each time he helped her up and down this staircase. She knew enough to expect it, and not make any comment. He could deal with her petulance for now, knowing she would regret it soon enough.

The candles cast a warm glow upon their faces as they entered the sitting room, and Marguerite's eyes were lit by an inward light.

"_Mon dieu_," she murmured, crossing herself. "_Merci_."

Erik was not quite sure to whom she was bestowing thanks. She crossed the room to the window and the nativity scene, delicately fingering the roof of the tiny stable it was set in. She picked up a little shepherd boy and turned him over in her hands. "Did you carve these?"

"Yes."

"It's like what you used to have…in your house under the theater." She put down the shepherd boy and picked up the carving of Joseph. "How long have you had them?"

"I made them in the last fortnight. For you."

She closed her eyes, swallowing. When she held out her arms, palms turned upward, Erik came to her, taking her hands again and tenderly weaving their fingers together. Her large stomach was a barrier between them, and she turned sideways to lean into him, whispering, "_Je t'aime, mon chérie_." She opened her eyes and watched the candles flickering, reflected in the window. She shivered, and Erik's arms came around her.

"_Je t'aime_ _aussi_," he said.

"_Joyeux Noël_, Erik."

They spent most of Christmas in front of the fire, along with Beatrice, staring into the flames and occasionally breaking the silence. Often these remarks were from Marguerite, whenever she felt the baby kick. Later, Erik ventured to play the pieces he had "improved," much to Marguerite's delight.

_Nouvelle agréable!  
__Un Sauveur enfant nous est né!  
C'est dans un étable  
Qu'Il nous est donné._

_Dans cette nuit le Christ est né.  
C'est pour nous qu'Il s'est incarné.  
Venez, Pasteurs, offrir vos coeurs.  
Aimez cet enfant tout aimable_...

Nadir would have been invited to join them beneath their roof, but he was nowhere to be found, and neither was his horse, Cyrus. His hoofprints could be seen traveling in the direction of town, Erik told Marguerite when he came back inside from walking down to the stables.

"It's the best Christmas I've ever had," Marguerite said in the evening, nibbling the small meal Erik insisted on making. "I'm fat, uncomfortable, swollen, and temperamental…but I'm with you. _Je remercie Dieu de vous_."

* * *

Although Erik was soothed by the incarcerating weather, Marguerite was more restless by the day, and prayed for an early spring. It was hardly an encouragement that winter had scarcely begun when she was making such appeals. She had never hated the season—it was really the baby she was waiting for, not spring. She had long ago calculated that they would finally meet their child at the end of January. 

More than anything, she wanted Erik to stop hovering. Grateful as she was, he was going to make her positively mad before it was all over. Nadir had returned to the house the day after Christmas, and Marguerite encouraged Erik to spend as much time with his friend as he liked. Of course, he was not fooled. One morning, however, no more than a fortnight into the New Year, she had begged him to go outside and gather firewood, if only to give her a scant few minutes of solitude.

She was putting the finishing stitches on a baby blanket when she felt it. A tightening in her stomach, nothing she had not felt before, and she sucked in her breath, waiting for it to cease. Only three days before, she had been terrified by another false contraction. This was probably the same. It was still too early.

Erik came back inside and added more fuel to the fireplace. He resumed his station, sitting and watching her from across the room. She felt his eyes boring into her forehead, and wondered if he could discern anything inside.

"Read to me, Erik," she suggested pleasantly. "Anything at all." He stood and moved to the bookshelves, pondering over which one to select.

Another contraction took her breath away. She clenched her eyes shut and tried to will the pain away. Erik turned around to go back to his seat and saw her distressed expression.

"What is it?" he asked, his voice laced with panic.

The pain began to subside, and she wiped her eye hastily. "Oh, I think some dust got in my eye, quite took me by surprise." She smiled. "Do go on."

With one more suspicious glance, he sat down and began to read to her from Victor Hugo's _Les Miserables_.

_In 1815, M_._ Charles-Francois-Bienvenu Myriel was Bishop of D—_._ He was an old man of about seventy-five years of age_;_ he had occupied the see of D—_ _since 1806_._ Although this detail has no connection whatever with the real substance of what we are about to relate, it will not be superfluous, if merely for the sake of exactness in all points, to mention here_—

"Marguerite, what's going on?"

She was staring down into the floor, her eyes not moving, her hands resting idly in her lap. The blanket was forgotten. Anyone might have thought she was merely engrossed in the story, but she was only waiting for another pang to take her. Erik spoke her name twice more before managing to snag her attention.

"I'm sorry, I really was listening," she lied. "Don't stop."

"There's something wrong," he said. "You _weren't_ paying attention."

"Of course I was!" she said, speaking too brightly, trying to sit up a little too quickly. However, after he had gotten back into the flow of the story, when another surge of pain was sent through her, she whimpered unintentionally.

"This is not nearly the gloomiest part of the story," Erik said, lowering the novel once again, his eyes alight with worry.

"I can't concentrate!" she said as the pain subsided. Limp from the relief, her eyelids drooped and she placed her hand over her stomach.

Erik let the book tumble to the floor and he shot to his feet and knelt beside her. "You're in pain." Biting her lip, she nodded. "Is it time?"

"It…may be," she choked out.

"You have to get upstairs into bed!" He reached out to snatch her wrists, but she resisted.

"No, Erik, please, don't confine me to bed yet. I can't—"

Panic swept through her like winds in a storm. She could die. She could have died at any point during this ordeal—or her baby—but this was leading up to the ultimate moment. _I'm going to die_, she thought. _This is going to kill me_. _Oh, please God, don't let it_. There was no crucifix in the house, and her rosary beats had long ago been left behind. She knew the Lord watched over her anyway, but that moment she needed something tangible, something to grasp, to look at.

Please don't let me die. 

She looked at Erik again. Sweat was beading on what she could see of his brow, and his eyes were enormous and flashing. His expression was altogether fierce, and she knew he was just as terrified as she was. It broke her heart to see him afraid of anything, and she felt her throat constrict. He stared at her, teeth clenched, anxious to do something.

"You can't have the baby down here," he said.

"I won't. Just…just let me stay down here a bit longer. I want to look out the window."

"How can you think of the view at a time like this!"

Tears came to her eyes when his voice was raised at her. "I have to! I can't think of what I'm about to do! I'm so scared…it hurts so much." She covered her face with her hands. "Oh, _Mama_, this was _never _the part I prepared for."

"I'll make you something for the pain, and send Nadir for the doctor," Erik said, springing to his feet.

"What if he comes and has to wait and wait? I can't just—"

"Then he will _wait_."

"No, Erik, _no!_ Please, just…Stay here with me, just a few minutes, and then you can go tell him. I don't want to be alone right now." She grasped his sleeve near the elbow. "What if I die?"

"You're not going to die," he said, though his voice rasped and his words sounded untrue. "You _cannot _die. I will not allow it."

In spite of herself, she smiled at his stubbornness. "Erik, you have to prepare yourself. It might happen. It happens all the time. I lost siblings this way, and my mother almost did not live long enough to conceive _me_. I—" She gritted her teeth, tightening her grip on his arm as another fierce cramp passed through her. "That hurt the most of anything thus far."

"You will not die," he said, laying one hand on her hair.

"My soul is in the Lord's hands. His will be—"

"_Stop it!_" he hissed, making her jump. "Stop speaking as though you know it will happen, as though you _want _it to happen!"

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Sighing remorsefully, he continued to stroke her hair as they sat in silence. After another stretch of time, she nearly tore the cloth of his sleeve as she clawed into his arm again with an almost feral intensity.

"Erik," she gasped, "send for the doctor. Send for him _now!_"

* * *


	11. The Angel's Child

**A/N: Oh, thank God for this chapter! It's here! I finally feel like I'm back on track—I can't deny there were a few rocky moments in the previous chapters (as far as the writing goes) and now I'm so happy with this one. Hopefully you will all be too.**

Disclaimer: I don't own PotO

* * *

Marguerite wrapped her arms around her belly, face contorted in pain as she waited for another contraction to pass. Erik had run off to find Nadir and send him for Doctor Busque. Having spent the better part of her confinement trying to keep him at a slight distance so as not to drive her to insanity, she now regretted it. She was terrified to be alone, and there was nothing else she wanted at the moment but company. 

_Come quickly, little one_.

When she heard the back door slam and Erik's rushing footsteps, she almost sobbed in open relief.

"Nadir is on his way," he said, hurrying back into the room. "You need to get into bed."

"That's what got me in _this _situation," she groaned. "Don't make me go up there yet."

"What else can you do?"

"I'll take a turn around the room. I need to clear my head for this, otherwise I just might lose it completely." She grunted and planted her feet on the floor as he pulled her up. If she had felt ungainly and unattractive before, it was nothing to what she was feeling now. Leaning on Erik's arm, she moved around the room before asking him to help her sit back down on the couch.

"Play me something, Erik. Anything at all."

"How can I play at a time like this?"

"I truly think it will help. Please. You'll feel better, too." Suddenly she was sounding so much calmer than she felt.

Erik sat at the piano for a moment, head resting on his hands. How could she ask him to do this? Despite all his insistence, he could not fight or deny the tenacious fear that ate at him from the inside out. This baby was coming. It might be only a few hours before they would see it…and know for sure. It might also be a few hours before Marguerite would be torn away from him forever. What was he going to do if he lost her? She had been frantic, then composed, but still he saw the terror in her eyes. Knowing she was also afraid did him no good.

At last, he heeded the call within him, the hunger that could only be sated one way, his first and last salve for any ill of the spirit. He placed his fingers on the piano keys and played a lullaby. After a while, Marguerite tried to speak through her discomfort.

"I hope you don't mind if we keep the baby with us in our room, just for a while, the first few weeks or so. I think that will make it easier. I really don't have any idea about it, you know. Oh, Erik, what if I make a downright mess of things? I don't know anything about caring for a child. I never even grew up with younger siblings, or cousins, or anyone like that. What if I'm a ghastly mother? What if our child grows up to be a horrible, depraved person because I went about it all wrong?"

The idea of Marguerite being a ghastly mother had not so much as entered Erik's thinking. "You _want_ to be a good mother, yes?"

"Of course I do."

"It should be enough."

"But I don't know what to _do_. Is it really enough just to _want_ to do something? What if I do something wrong?"

"You'll learn, I'm sure. And if you make mistakes…They will not have been intentional."

She cried out in pain again. The piano bench turned over and crashed to the floor as Erik jumped up from his seat and back to her side.

"Erik, make sure there's a fire going upstairs. I don't want our baby born in a freezing room." With a brisk nod, he left her to do as she asked. She was free of pain for that time.

"It should be quite comfortable soon," he said when he returned.

"Thank you," she said weakly, stretching out her hands, entreating him to help her to her feet again. Another contraction came when they were halfway up the stairs, and she almost stumbled back. The tumble surely would have killed her or the baby, or both.

"Watch yourself!" Erik shouted before he thought better of it.

Heart pounding, Marguerite gripped the banister with knuckles as white as the snow outside. She had to catch her breath, but she was shaking terribly, waiting for the ache to subside.

"Where is Nadir with that damn doctor?" Erik muttered as they resumed the ascent. At last they reached the bedroom, with no shortage of relief for either party.

"I should change into my nightgown," she said, her voice distant, a hazy look in her eyes. Without a word, Erik assisted her in that too. When he was done, Marguerite could not remember ever feeling so grateful to lie down in her bed, cocooned with blankets and propped up on pillows. "The baby is early. I wasn't expecting this for another week or two…I think."

"It will be all right," Erik said.

"You _know _what could happen, don't you? I've already warned you—"

"Yes, yes I know. But it won't." He sat at the edge of the bed and caressed her damp cheek. Sweat was beading on her forehead, but the room was not that hot. "What do you need right now?"

Another wave of distressed crashed upon her. She groped the blankets until he placed his hand upon hers, and she held it tightly until it passed.

"Just stay here with me. I can't go through this alone. _Bon dieu_, Erik, what if I had stayed away when I left you? I would have been going through this God only knows where." His hand shook when she kissed it. "Please don't leave me."

* * *

Her pains were far enough apart that several times she fell asleep between them, though how much rest she gained was certainly debatable. She kept waking up, gasping and clutching her stomach, and Erik felt nausea in his own at seeing her like this. Several hours passed this way, excruciating stretches of time. It was nothing but waiting—waiting and pain. From what he saw, if Marguerite _wanted _to die, Erik did not think he could blame her. 

But he could not let her. If she died, he would never forgive that child. He would never forgive _himself_. He might be partly mad, but he was no fool. He knew he had a great deal to do with this entire situation, and knowing he had brought this upon his wife was enough to tell him that perhaps she would have been much better off without him in her life. _I only hope one day you'll forgive me for this,_ he thought, watching her doze once more. Even then, a part of him remained amazed that she would suffer this for him, for them, and for a child she had never met.

Eventually she could not sleep through the pains. As the hours wore on, they came closer together.

"You'll have to help me, Erik," she whispered. "I can't do this all on my own, this house, and a baby…I can't do it. I don't know the first thing about it, and I'll be so busy learning…"

"We'll think of something," he offered. She lazily closed her eyes before snapping them open again in pain, her lungs panting for air.

"Erik, where's the doctor?" she asked helplessly when the last contraction had ceased. "I hope there's not too much snow…I don't know what to do. I've never even witnessed a birth. When I was much younger, our neighbor had her babies, but I was too young to help or to even be in the room…" She stopped speaking, uttering a breathy "Oh."

Erik sat up straighter. He heard them too—hoofbeats—two horses. The doctor was here.

"I will be back momentarily," he said, hurrying down the stairs and out into the front lawn. Marguerite wished desperately to see out the window. An entire day had gone by. It was already getting dark outside. Perhaps she _had _wasted time lying in bed. She could have done something while sitting down—more sewing, for example. Well, it was too late now.

She cringed when she heard Erik's voice from outside.

"Damn you, daroga, I told you to bring the _doctor!_"

In a few minutes, Erik reappeared in the doorway, followed by a grave-looking Madame Busque. The older woman rushed in and sat at Marguerite's side, where Erik had been.

"How are you feeling, my dear?" she asked softly. "The doctor was called away quite suddenly to a farm outside of town, so he cannot be here."

"Oh…I see…"

"Nadir brought her in his place," Erik said tersely from the doorway.

"Don't forget I'm a midwife," Madame Busque said to Marguerite, not so much as glancing in Erik's direction. She smiled when Marguerite nodded in agreement. "I'm sorry I could not be here sooner, but the weather is a bit treacherous and I had to convince that man to let me come in place of my husband. He wanted to go look for him instead." She lifted the black bag she had carried with her and opened it. "I have most of what is required with me. Your husband can fetch me the rest." She pulled out a bottle and a handkerchief. "A little ether will dull the pain for now."

Marguerite felt as though she would be sick after the damp cloth was gently pressed over her nose and mouth. Her eyelids fluttered, and her senses wavered. She barely registered Madame Busque standing up and moving to speak to Erik, quietly instructing him on what actions were necessary on his part, what else she needed. She floated on the edge of consciousness until the next contraction.

_You won't need that, _she thought, but did not say, when the woman removed some more items from her bag. _I'm going to die anyway_…_You won't need that_…_It'll all be over soon_…_My Lord, if I must die today, spare my child_…_Let Erik have that remnant of me_…_If it is in Your will, please save us both_…_If You have to take me, let it be over soon_…

In fact, it was several hours of mind-searing pain and dulled senses, of drifting on half-consciousness and nausea, and then rudely jerked back to life. Nothing Marguerite had ever been through was this bad, except when Marcel had beaten her senseless. Then, like now, she had thought she would die. But there was no purpose to it. Here, she _was _striving for something, for bringing a new life into the world, Erik's child and hers. If she lived to enjoy the baby, she wagered she would be the happiest woman on the earth.

Meanwhile, Erik had been shut out of the birthing room once he supplied Madame Busque with the water, towels, and other supplies she needed. He was forced to pace up and down the stairs and all over the house while he listened to his wife's screams and groans of misery from behind the door. Would forcing himself inside make it worse? Possibly, and that was the only thing that kept him from removing the hinges himself. He tried sitting in the chair in what was to become the baby's room, but he found it very difficult to sit still. This powerlessness to help was eating away at his guts, and he loathed every minute of it.

He glanced around the small room, decorated with yellow and furnished with a cradle—made with his own two hands—a chair, a dresser, and little else. None of the artifacts Madame Giry had sent would have been exactly suitable for a nursery.

_She's going to hate me_, he thought. _She will hate me forever for doing this to her_. _Will I always bring her only suffering? _Was there nothing he could do that would make her happy? _This child_…_If she lives_—

She will live! 

Nadir came back to the house once, but Erik refused to let him in or speak to him. Marguerite's cries drove him to block his ears, but they still rang inside his head.

_I did this to her_, he kept thinking. _I did this, I did this_. _And now that baby is coming, another Living Corpse, another grotesque, half-human, cursed thing_. _I did warn her_…

_And she promised you_…_She will love your child, no matter what_.

_A promise lovingly made, but impossible to keep_. Perhaps he was underestimating Marguerite, but he allowed free reign to his own concerns.

_Let her live_, he begged. _Let her survive_. _If someone has to die, let it be me_. _She can have the child, a child she wants, and be happy with that_. _If I have to live without her, then let her stay, and let me go back to where I've always belonged_. _Don't take her_—_not here, not now_.

Trembling, he pressed his forehead and the palms of his hands to the bedroom door. Each of Marguerite's screams was like a knife wound slicing through him, but he could not tear himself away. He gritted his teeth, listening to Madame Busque speaking to her, calmly but firmly.

"I know it hurts, my dear. Don't hold back. Scream as loud as you like, you'll feel better. Come on then, push now. You want to meet your child, don't you? Come on then, dear girl, yes, that's it. Oh, Marguerite, I can see it! Yes, I know, I know you're in pain. Do try."

Marguerite's last cry reverberated through the house. Erik knew that in the quiet of the winter night, Nadir had to be hearing it all from the stables. The midwife continued to speak soothingly but loudly over Marguerite's groans, and Erik could hear her bearing down again. Then, there was a new sound piercing through the bedroom.

A baby was crying.

Erik clenched his eyes shut and held his breath. He waited, waited for the midwife's scream of terror at what she saw, at the loathsome creature that had emerged from Marguerite's womb, the disgusting corpse he had sired. The baby's wails filled his ears, but no female shrieks. Shaking worse than ever, he retreated to the small bedroom across the hall. He could not hear Marguerite anymore, or the doctor's wife. He could only hear the baby's cries. They had been to stricken with horror to say anything. Even now, Marguerite was weeping silently, wishing she had heeded his warnings.

Despondent, Erik slammed the door shut and hunched over in the chair, covering his face. Utilizing his best defense mechanism, he retreated into the depths of his mind and became dead to reality. He did not even notice when the baby had finally ceased its bawling.

* * *

"Monsieur du Fleuve?" Madame Busque said cautiously, coming in with a tiny bundle. "You may see your daughter now, if you like." 

_No, I can't look_, was the first thing that came to his mind. Then it cleared slightly, allowing him to look up at the doctor's wife standing beside him. There had been no screams of horror once the baby's cries began. Even now, the woman was smiling tenderly, without disgust or fear. She was holding the bundle delicately, expectantly. _No_, he couldn't look! He could not bear it.

"Ten fingers, ten toes, and a generous head of black hair. Come, come, take a look at her, monsieur!"

_Daughter_…_her_…It was female? What an even greater tragedy if she looked like him! He felt almost too weak to stand. A shadow was cast, and the midwife was standing over him. The little mass of blankets squirmed slightly, and he felt a shudder deep in his gut. He would not look, but that woman would not leave him alone!

"She should be with her mother," he said. _Bon dieu_, what were those words he was speaking?

"Oh, but monsieur, you must look at her!"

It was inevitable, he supposed; he could not avoid it completely. What good would it do to put it off?

He tentatively raised a hand—always so steady, it now trembled like a solitary leaf clinging to its branch—and folded back a portion of the blanket, preparing himself to see a female version of himself decades ago. Instead, he saw a red, wrinkled face, gray-blue eyes that crossed and uncrossed, a tiny mouth with lips working as though she was hungry again. A whole face…a whole nose—pointed, like her mother's.

It couldn't be. "There must be some mistake…" he said. This only made the woman laugh.

"Most assuredly, monsieur, she is yours!"

"Mine…"

"Do you want to hold her?"

"No, I…I can't."

"Nonsense, it's easy! Just be careful with her head, there…See how I'm doing it?"

Before Erik could utter another word of protest, he found himself holding it somewhat awkwardly. He looked down at the bundle and felt a surge of emotion he had never quite experienced before—a bond, a desire to protect, and yet a terror of sorts. Is this what his own father would have felt, had he lived to see his son born?

Probably not.

Fatherhood—a term he had never thought to apply to himself, and never wanted to. It was too absurd, it was incomprehensible, but…real. Had he ever thought for one moment that he would be holding his own offspring in his arms, with a wife asleep in their bedroom?

"Marguerite," he said. "Is she…?"

The woman's smile faded slightly. "It was a difficult delivery, monsieur. There was a lot of blood, and much pain. She still is hurting, or will be when she wakes up again. She's very weak. It was not the worst I've seen," she added quickly when Erik's eyes widened and shot sparks. "Women through the ages have survived much worse." She swallowed. "But if you desire more children…perhaps you should reconsider."

_Not a chance, _he thought. _She's not going through that again_. Erik swallowed and looked down at the infant. Her expression looked almost incredulous, as though daring him to say…something. He held her out to Madame Busque. "You had better take her back."

Nodding, she took the child without another word and went back across the hall. She stopped at the bedroom door and turned back to him. "Would you like to see Marguerite for a moment? She may not wake up, but if it would make you feel better to see her…You might bring that cradle in with you."

"Yes," he said huskily, standing up quickly and lifting the cradle, careful not to bump it in the doorway and across the hall. Madame Busque opened it quietly and they stepped into the larger bedroom, the vigorous fire in the fireplace providing the only light. Erik stopped short just inside; the smell of sweat and blood still hung heavily in the air. A large basin was filled with blood and vomit, and crimson-soaked cloths were piled on the floor. It was all a grisly sight.

Marguerite was flat on her back, her head turned to the side, her mouth barely open. Damp tendrils of black hair clung to her deathly pale face. Flushed in childbirth, her skin now looked as though every drop of her life's blood had been drained from her body. Erik felt sickened looking at her. He moved closer to her, setting the cradle down somewhere on the floor, hardly thinking of it at all.

She couldn't die. She could _not_.

The doctor's wife placed the baby in her cradle, and Erik took a seat in the chair already there. Though he was silent, Marguerite stirred and opened her eyes, taking him by surprise. He had feared they would be dull with impending death, but they were shockingly vibrant, though red, with eyelids drooping with fatigue.

"Erik…" she murmured. "I'm sorry it…wasn't a…wasn't a boy…"

"Don't say that," he whispered slowly. "What good is a boy to anyone?"

She only smiled tremulously as her hand twitched. She was too tired and in too much pain to move more than that. Erik took that hand and brought it to his lips, turning it over to kiss her palm. She had just become a mother, but looked as young as ever. What had he done to her?

"You're alive," he said reverently. "I said you would be."

Her smile did not fade. "Yes. I'm so tired…" She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "W-what do we…call her?"

The fact that the child needed a name had not even occurred to him. "After her mother?" he offered.

"Nonsense," Marguerite said, sighing. "She needs something special."

"Nothing in particular comes to my mind," he said.

"Solange."

Did she actually mean that? "Sun Angel," Erik said. "Oh, yes, a very good joke indeed." He knew she was dead serious, though, and when she opened her mouth to speak again, he pressed his finger to her lips. The weakness in her voice had only served to increase his own fear. "Stop talking," he whispered. "You have to rest. She will be Solange if you like." He moved his hand away.

"Solange Marie. You _did _see her?"

"Yes," he said, slightly exasperated.

"She's beautiful, isn't she?" Even so weak, her mouth formed a knowing smile that sent a tremor through Erik's pride.

"Beautiful." He stood up. "You must be in great pain. Sleep now. I'll come in again later."

"Is she…baptized?" Erik swallowed. Did Marguerite actually want a priest there? "She has to be baptized, Erik."

He gritted his teeth. "I'll send for him." Reluctantly he left her in the care of Madame Busque to go saddle up Penelope in the barn. This time, he would see to the errand himself.

* * *

**A/N: Don't you DARE think this is the end of the story! We are not even close. To quote Raoul, "What new surprises lie in store?"**

**And to those of you who were pulling for a boy, just wait. You will come to love Solange.**


	12. A Godsend

**A/N: Oh, thanks to you all for your wonderful reviews. I can promise lots of interesting episodes to come involving Solange. Enjoy this chapter…It didn't want to be written, but I finally subdued it!**

Disclaimer: ARGH!

* * *

Mother and daughter slept in their own beds, both with expressions of utmost peace on their faces. Erik was not sure where to look. Finally he sat and stared at baby Solange in her cradle. She looked nothing like him. She was just this being—tiny, red, wrinkly, and as completely foreign to him as if she had dropped from the sky. It was almost impossible for him to believe that this baby was what had been developing within Marguerite's womb for the past nine months…or eight-and-a-half. 

He had been wrong. The entire time, he had been mistaken. This child had no deformity, from what he could see. He remembered children being born to the gypsies, and some in the slums of Paris, and knew Solange was a perfectly normal, healthy newborn. There was not a blemish on her innocent face. Her eyes opened large and bright; her nose was whole.

He had almost killed this child. He _would _have, if Marguerite were not so stubborn.

_Oh, God, now I see_…_Now I see what she was running away to protect_. _She knew_…_She knew this was going to happen_. _She knew this baby would turn out the way she is_. _Good lord, she's perfect_. _She doesn't look like me at all_. _Thank God_. He smirked. _Are You listening up there? I'm thanking You for something_. _I hope You can hear that, and enjoy it_. _It won't be happening again_.

A little demon whispered in his ear, but he pushed it away.

It tried again.

_No, _he said. _She's mine_. _This child is mine_. _Whose could it be?_ _No_…_She wouldn't do that_. _Marguerite would never betray me_.

How ironic of you to say that, Erik…

He would not think these things! Not in the same room as Marguerite and this—his _daughter_. Oh, lord…his daughter. He had a wife and a daughter.

As these thoughts dashed in and out of his mind, he turned to face Marguerite. It had been months since she was able to sleep so deeply. Her body resumed its limp, almost flaccid appearance when she slept, as if her skeleton had vanished. Utter relief was written all over her face; even unconscious, it could not be mistaken for anything else. Her hair clung to her damp forehead, but her color was not returning.

"Monsieur du Fleuve?"

Erik looked up to see a weary Madame Busque standing in the doorway. He nodded slightly.

"If I may, perhaps you would let me have a few hours' sleep downstairs on your settee. You see I cleaned up most everything, and…I should still be here if your wife needs anything."

_I'm here for her,_ Erik protested. Yet he knew Marguerite would be grateful for the help, the advice, and the female company. She had been quite deprived of it these past nine months. "Yes, the couch is very comfortable," he said huskily before looking away from her.

"I left my husband a message at the house to come here as soon as he can. He'll be able to examine her far better than I." With that, she left him alone with the two sleeping females and went downstairs to make herself at home.

Erik reached out and brushed a lock of glistening ebony from Marguerite's forehead. She stirred only slightly, so worn down it did no use in waking her. Not that he had wanted to.

The baby gave only the slightest whimper of warning before releasing one long wail. Cringing, Erik stared, both dismayed and astonished by the alien sound. He looked back at Marguerite, whose eyes had snapped open, and she was trying to lift her head and sit up. Footsteps pounded up the stairs, and Madame Busque reappeared.

"I can't—" Marguerite started to say.

"It's all right, dear, it's all right." The midwife bent to lift the screaming bundle. She gently brushed the baby's cheek, and Solange turned her head toward the sensation. The older woman nodded. "Hungry again," she said, and transferred the child to Marguerite's waiting arms. Feeling isolated, Erik watched the scene unfold as if in a theater, having no part in it and not entirely sure what was going to happen.

"Monsieur, your wife might like some priva—" Her sentence was cut off by a withering look, and she took an automatic step back from him before leaving the room again. Silently she marveled at the scientific detachment she had seen him wear on his features as he watched Marguerite begin to nurse their child.

Shaking with trepidation, awe, and fatigue, Marguerite held the baby to her breast, stroking the dark head and uttering wordless murmurs. She did not care that Erik was staring; she barely noticed him there at all. When Solange had her fill, Marguerite weakly shifted the tiny weight in her arms and covered herself again. Slowly she lifted her eyes to meet Erik's, and was a bit crestfallen to read nothing in them.

"Take her," she said feebly. The infant's eyelids were already drooping. "She'll sleep soon."

"As will you," Erik said. Curious, he frowned. A strange light seemed to come on in Marguerite's eyes.

"Erik…" she whispered slowly. "Take off your mask."

His own eyes flashed dangerous sparks. "What?"

"Let her see your face."

Instantly his memory flashed back to another time, another place, another young woman. Luciana—Giovanni's daughter—had demanded the same thing just before she died. So young and immature, she had seen his face…and had died for her fear.

"No."

Marguerite held Solange out to him. "If she sees it now, from birth, she'll never be afraid. Doesn't that make sense? She'll think nothing of it! She'll always know, and you won't have to hide from your own daughter. Oh, please, Erik!"

"You just pacified that child. I won't have her screaming again."

"Oh, she _will _do it again, I can promise you that. I just don't know when." Her eyes widened in pleading. "You must do it."

"So she will always be afraid of me?"

"No! She'll be accustomed to it, as I…am becoming." She swallowed. "Aren't you listening? She'll have to see it sometime. How much longer will you hide yourself in your own home?"

"Don't think of me," he said gruffly. "You've been through a terrible ordeal. You need to rest, and…not think of anything for a while."

She sighed in defeat. "At least take her and put her back in her cradle."

Reluctantly, Erik reached out and took the child. Solange opened her eyes and gurgled. Marguerite smiled, watching the muscles in Erik's jaw tightening, his neck tensing, as he placed her in the cradle as though she was made of glass. He turned back to Marguerite.

"You don't look well at all."

"Erik, I just had a baby. That usually takes up some of a woman's strength."

He shook his head. "It's worse than that. Aren't you in pain?"

"Yes. Immense pain, Erik, like nothing I've ever felt before." He started to stand, and she grabbed his hand, her expression turning frantic. "Don't tell her! Don't tell Madame Busque. She'll give me more ether, and I can't…I can't take that. It already made me sick. I'd rather have this pain than ride those horrible waves of nausea…"

"I'll make you something for the pain."

"Perhaps we should wait until the doctor comes. She said he'd come eventually."

"Yes, she told me that too." He narrowed his eyes. "I'm hesitant to trust him. He left you at the mercy of his wife."

"She was wonderful to me, Erik. Look, I'm alive…Solange is alive and healthy. What more could you possibly want?"

He did not speak, but just grabbed the edge of the bedsheets and flung them back from her.

"What are you doing?" She tried to lower her voice for the sake of the baby. He began to examine her, and she was too weak and sore to make a move of resistance. His hands were gentle, but hurt her all the same, and she did not have the strength to push him away. Bile rose in her throat, and she felt as though she would be sick again.

"You're still bleeding," he said tersely.

Blushing fiercely, she tried to sit up further. "Erik, _stop_. You're not a doctor—"

"It could get infected." He stood up and covered her with the blankets again. "I can make something for this. I'll be back soon."

Downstairs, she heard him snap at Madame Busque for attempting to sleep while her charge was in such a dreadful condition. She tried to sink deeper under the covers, embarrassed. Softer footsteps came up the stairs, and the midwife's form returned to the doorway. Marguerite felt guilty at the weariness on her face, the lines in her skin and the mussed hair she had caused.

"My husband will know what's to be done," Madame Busque said. "He should be here today or tomorrow. You'll be all right until then."

"Am I really still bleeding?" Marguerite asked. "It still hurts, but I expected that."

Biting her lip, the older woman examined her. Despite her feminine touch, her hands hurt Marguerite just as Erik had, and also quite by accident.

"I'm afraid you are—but just a little," she lied.

_A little? Then why was Erik so frantic?_

"If you're still in pain, I can help you there." She reached for her bottle of ether and the handkerchief.

"No, please," Marguerite said faintly. "Don't—"

"Hush," she said gently. "I'm not trying to hurt you." She clamped the handkerchief to the mouth of the bottle and tipped it. "It's all for the best." The cloying scent began to permeate the room as she approached Marguerite.

"I'll be sick again."

"Not this time. You've nothing to bring back up. This will make you feel better, and you need your sleep, after all. Your child is all right, so please try to relax." With that, she placed the cloth over Marguerite's nose and mouth.

Marguerite tried to hold her breath, but it was no use. Oh, how she wished her own mother were there at her bedside, stroking her hair and whispering words of comfort and empathy. Soon her mind was fogging up again, the room twisting and rolling. Her eyes slid back into her head, and darkness embraced her like a familiar lover. By the time Erik came back later with a salve, she was completely unconscious again and unable to be roused.

* * *

"I should very much like to know what that was made of, madame," Dr. Busque said. "Your husband might very well have saved your life." 

"I don't know what," she said faintly. "I've learned that sometimes it's better not to ask questions about certain things."

The doctor smiled jovially. "You ought to tell my wife that. She makes it difficult for me to keep my patients' anonymity at times. Well then," he leaned back and sighed, "you seem to be out of danger, at least."

Marguerite stared at him, lips opening slightly. "Are you sure? You sound as though…"

He shook his head. "Just be grateful you _are_ alive, madame. Childbirth is always ghastly, and it could have been deadly for you. Both you and your baby are now just fine. Although I'm sorry to say, my wife was right—it really might be best if there are no more children. It could be worse for you next time."

Swallowing, she nodded slightly. He gave what he hoped was an encouraging nod and left the room. She heard his soft voice speaking to Erik's low, tense one briefly before she heard his footsteps fading down the stairs. It was not long before Erik came in to see for himself how she fared. She gave him a brave smile, but he did not seem mollified at all.

"Will you pick up Solange and bring her to me?" she asked. "I want to hold her for a bit." _How strange he looks with a baby in his arms,_ she thought. _He still looks at her as though she's some strange new specimen he's come across, and not quite sure what to make of her_. She grinned brightly when he passed the child on to her. "Oh, look at her darling face," she cooed. "Her eyes have changed, see?"

He leaned over to inspect them. They were not as blue-green as they had been right after she was born. There was definitely some gray in them, as well.

"She may have my eyes after all," her mother murmured. "The color, anyway. She's such a beautiful child, isn't she?" Her mouth tipped in a little grin. "But every mother thinks that of her own baby." With one finger, she stroked Solange's soft cheek. "You're my little darling, aren't you?" She grew silent, just watching her baby, wishing Erik would also warm up to her. He seemed bent on remaining obscure and indifferent. Sighing, she shifted the infant's weight in her arms and looked up at Erik again.

"Please let her see you."

When she saw the flames in his eyes, she hesitated, wondering if she ought to have controlled her tongue and not said anything. But once the idea had nestled inside her head, it nibbled and gnawed and gave her no peace.

"Why are you so insistent?" he hissed.

"Have you got a better idea?"

"Perhaps…when she is old enough."

"And you'll conceal yourself from her until then?" Marguerite asked skeptically. "Don't you know, Erik, children are _very _curious."

He thought of Christine years ago, ripping away his mask when he had entrusted her, when had allowed her to see him as a man, not as her Angel of Music. She had broken down the only barrier between them, but that one swift moment had constructed dozens more. _Not only children, _he thought, looking into Solange's face. She was already inquisitive.

This child was going to be more trouble than she was worth, he realized.

"I will _not_," he said. "I won't be responsible for shattering her sanity and her innocence before she can even speak."

"Erik, she's just a baby. She has no prejudices, no knowledge of what the world is like, how cruel and unfair it can be. Let this be a lesson to her—her first lesson in true beauty." Her voice softened and slowed down. "Let your daughter see you."

"Leave it be," he said.

Her countenance suddenly changed from gentle pleading to vexation. "Don't forget what else I've been right about, Erik! I'm not really the fool you seem to think I am." She lowered her head and, not wanting to look at him, proceeded to make a fuss about rearranging the blankets around Solange. The infant made contented noises and lifted her tiny fists.

Finally she said, low and bitterly and still without looking at him, "The least you could do is sing to her."

A moment later, something hit her thigh. She glanced over and saw his white mask—sinister and fearsome with nothing shining through the eyehole—resting upon the blanket. Tilting her head back up to see his, she swallowed. When he wore the mask for great lengths of time, she forgot what was underneath, and that made it more of a shock when she did see it again. No wonder he had been so afraid of having a child.

_Why, God? Why was he born like this?_ Silent, she again shifted the baby in her arms. Solange's eyes darted back and forth and finally rested on her father's. She made not a sound.

"Take her, Erik. Hold her for just a moment."

He did, and Marguerite watched, biting her lip. He was just as quiet as his daughter, but she knew that an enormous step had been taken. After a while, he put her back in her cradle, and she fell back to sleep.

"Have the Doctor and Madame Busque gone?" Marguerite asked.

"Yes. I told them their services are no longer necessary."

"They're not servants, Erik. You shouldn't treat them as such." She saw him bristle at that remark and immediately regretted it. She really had to control herself _sometimes_! She could not allow herself to become a pecking old hen.

"They were well compensated," he said, "but didn't have to stay. I can care for you far better, as I'm sure you've noticed."

"I did. He said you saved my life."

Erik nodded tersely, and she took his hand. After a while, he left her side to bring her something to eat. She had little appetite, but tried to consume it to placate him. It stuck in her throat and jarred her stomach, but under normal circumstances, it would have been rather delicious.

She had long ago lost track of the time. Had it been days or mere hours since Solange had been born? Floating on a haze of ether, she had been unaware of lots of things, and when she came to, the pain was worse than before. She felt helpless and confused, and despised every minute of such feelings. She could not wait to be back on her feet and moving around on her own again. Yet she dreaded it, just a little—when she _was _finally recovered, she would be twice as busy as before. How was she going to handle all of the work?

For a while, all that could be heard was the crackling of the fire, which Erik stoked every so often, but soon another sound broke through. Two horses were outside, the sounds of their hooves muffled in the snow, but still audible. Erik peered out the window, but it was too dark outside to see a thing. Obviously tense and on guard, he turned back over his shoulder to speak to Marguerite.

"I will go see what's going on." Replacing his mask, he disappeared out of the room and down the stairs. She heard several voices, believing one of them to be Nadir's. Another sounded like a woman. Had the Doctor and Madame Busque returned for some reason?

There came the creaking of footfalls on the stairs, and Nadir entered the room, head lowered and eyes averted from her unattractive state. Behind him came a middle-aged woman Marguerite had never seen before, and then Erik bringing up the rear. Marguerite felt nervous about having so many people here to see her like this, but her curiosity was more powerful.

"Madame," Nadir said diffidently, "this is Mlle Paige Lambert, from _Eaux Froides_. She has asked to come for hire and…assist you."

The woman did not smile, but she looked Marguerite briefly in the face before letting her crystal blue eyes roam around the room, lingering for a while on the cradle. Her hair was swept up into a chignon. Its gray-streaked, strawberry-blonde color reminded Marguerite, with some sorrow, of her mother. Mlle Lambert was not at all beautiful, but neither was she ugly—without, she was completely unremarkable, although she had a softness about her that seemed to defy age. Perhaps it came from tenderness within.

"How do you do," Marguerite said, awkwardly extending her hand. "Do…erm…forgive my appearance." She nodded toward Erik as Mlle Lambert gently, briefly took the offered hand. "I see you have met my husband…Erik."

"There's nothing to forgive," Mlle Lambert said crisply. "You have certainly been through quite a lot." She glanced back at Erik without emotion, but when she looked at Nadir, a tenderness lit up her eyes. Marguerite had to hold back a gasp of surprise and understanding before the woman turned back to her. "You're very young."

Marguerite flushed with what blood she had left. "Yes," she whispered, "but twenty-one…not so _very _young."

"Indeed no," Mlle Lambert said airily. "Some women your age have already had scores of children." Marguerite smiled; she liked this woman. Mlle Lambert turned back to Erik. "It is no consequence to me if you cannot pay me much. I only ask for food and lodging, and care for my horse, and whatever I need to carry out my duties."

When she returned her gaze to Marguerite, she finally smiled. "I was left a goodly sum by my father when he died, and now I prefer to spend my life in the care and assistance of others. I heard of your situation, and have come fully prepared to make myself useful."

"Erik, she can have the baby's room," Marguerite said. "For now."

He scowled deeply, obviously rather opposed to the idea. "There's no bed."

"I will make up one that can do for now," Nadir spoke up. He moved past Mlle Lambert and Erik to perform this task. Mlle Lambert's color heightened.

"We can manage quite well on our own," Erik said tersely. "We have no need for extra help."

Mlle Lambert raised one eyebrow. "Would you rather I leave, monsieur?"

"Yes," Erik said, not hesitating for a moment. His entire body stood rigid, and Marguerite, remembering what Nadir had told her of Persia, felt a flash of panic. Surely Erik would not harm this woman?

"Erik, leave her be. I do believe I shall need her."

He took a defensive step closer to her bedside, his eyes boring into her face. "I will see to all you need."

Marguerite smirked cynically. "What shall you do when you are composing? I miss your music, to be sure, and by no means want to discourage it. But you forget _everything _when you are at that piano, certainly myself as well. Whether I am abed or not, there are things which _must_ be done." Ignoring the curling of his upper lip, she addressed Mlle Lambert.

"If you could see to the housework, that should be enough. The baby's cradle will stay in here with us, at least for the first few weeks, so you needn't worry about feeding her in the middle of the night. Though I can't say she won't awake you when she cries."

"You're a new mother," Mlle Lambert said, "and you need all the help you can obtain. I never had children of my own, but I have taken care of my sister's, and my friends', and know what difficulties are involved. I may have no occupation, madame, but I am not afraid of work—at any hour of the day or night."

"You're a saint," Marguerite breathed. "Oh, the Lord bless you, mademoiselle…and Nadir, for finding you."

Mlle Lambert's smile was pensive. "Bless him, indeed."

She would have to inquire further into the nature of their relationship at a later time. Marguerite smiled as soothingly as she could at Erik, and tried to give her words the gentlest tone. "Erik, perhaps you could help Nadir…?"

With palpable reluctance, he left the room and descended the stairs. She watched him go, feeling an inexplicable pang, before returning her attention to the other woman. There was one obvious detail, the elephant in the room, and she had to address it before things went any further.

"You must be wondering about his mask," she said hesitantly.

"It is of no consequence to me," Mlle Lambert said after the slightest pause, already straightening the bedsheets around her. "I have met enough eccentrics in my life to overlook a peculiar habit such as that."

Marguerite said nothing, deciding to let it go for now.

* * *


	13. Sharing

**A/N: HAHAHAHA!**

**Don't ask. I am driven mad. I do so miss my devotees, aka the Half-Blood Princesses. You would be proud of me.**

Disclaimer: I wants it!

* * *

"Now I know where you've been keeping yourself these last few months," Erik said to Nadir one afternoon. 

He had come to the stables to take inventory of his many tinctures and herbs. The old gypsy who had taught him ancient medicines had shared plenty of knowledge that a young man of thirteen never thought he would need. Now that he realized he did, Erik was working hard to recall everything in order to come up with something for Marguerite later on. Meanwhile, he relentlessly badgered Nadir. The Persian would not easily meet his gaze, and Erik took wicked pleasure in watching his discomfort.

"Little excursions into town for days at a time…No wonder I could hardly find you. I never thought you would develop a taste for French women, Nadir. And at your age…" He shook his head in mock concern.

Nadir patted his horse. "She is good company," he finally admitted.

"Keep her in line," Erik said, his tone veering from banter to commanding. "When Marguerite no longer needs her, make sure she is _gone_."

Nadir cleared his throat. "Then I shall very likely go with her."

"So be it," Erik said, narrowing his eyes. "Your presence was never asked for in the first place! You were the one intruding, remember?"

"Yet you allowed me to stay. I'm forever grateful to your _charity_."

Erik had to hide his surprise at the derision with which Nadir was speaking. Apparently he had stretched the older man's patience further than usual. "And what does this lady of yours know of _you_, daroga? Where you came from, and why you are in France…have you told her?"

"I hardly think I have quite the same history to conceal as you do." The corner of his mouth tipped up. "Will you speak to her, Erik? I sincerely doubt it! You can barely tolerate her presence in the house, much less hold a conversation…even if it is to slight me." He shrugged. "Perhaps I have overstayed my welcome. There is still much of France I have not seen yet. When the winter departs, so will I, I think."

Erik fought the tiny knot forming in his chest. "When you do, see that you take your aged _mademoiselle_ with you." He did not mention that the only way he could leave Marguerite's side with any peace of mind was knowing that woman was watching over her. For whatever reason, having her around was galling, but she did still have her uses when it came to Marguerite and the baby.

"Erik…" Nadir began to say.

"_What?_" The vehement response made him rethink what he was going to say.

"Never mind, it is nothing important." _When will you learn that not everyone wants to use you? Not everyone hates you at first sight_.

* * *

Marguerite stirred, a soft voice tickling the dark of her unconsciousness and lightening it. It was not part of her dreams; it grew instead of fading. She opened her eyes, gummy with sleep, and looked around without moving her head. It was, of course, Erik's voice, but his face was not near hers; the voice was not directed toward her ears. 

_Qu'avez-vous donc beau camarade_

_Je suis parti tout en pleurant_

_Qu'avez-vous donc à pleurer tant_

_Je suis parti tout en pleurant en naviguant_…

She lifted her head, and immediately questioned what her eyes were telling her. Erik's back was turned to her, and his arms were bent, his head tilted to the side. He stood in front of an empty cradle.

_Regrettes-tu ton père ou ta mere_

_Je suis parti tout en pleurant_

_Ou bien quelqu'un de tes parents_.

_Je suis parti tout en pleurant en naviguant_…

Smiling, she listened until the song's last note rang in the air. It lingered like perfume, and finally faded. Erik bent down to place Solange back in her cradle, and when he straightened and began to turn around, Marguerite closed her eyes, pretending to sleep. This time she remembered to relax her muscles completely. For a moment, she felt Erik's eyes upon her and thought she might not be able to hold in a giggle. But then she sensed him move away, and heard the door click shut, followed by his footsteps on the stairs.

She did not mention that little scene to him, though she had to fight every inclination to do so. She waited for overt signs that he was warming up to the child, but he was careful to conceal any affection he might have felt. Several times more she fell asleep to the sound of his voice, secretly knowing he was not singing for her.

_Erik deserves a remnant in this world_, she thought. _He should have something to leave behind_. _She will be a magnificent woman_.

At least Marguerite hoped so. Solange was a beautiful baby, but in the weeks to come, showed herself to be completely ordinary otherwise. Marguerite kept an eye on her almost every moment of every day, watching for some extraordinary behavior—despite Mlle Lambert's constant reminders that the child was only weeks old. What _was _she to expect, anyway? Walking before her legs were strong enough? Humming melodies before she could even form words? She wanted to ask Erik what he was like as a baby, but knew he loathed the subject of his childhood. She could not dare to bring it up in conversation.

She had even allowed herself to forget what she knew about Persia.

"Every woman wants her child to be remarkable," Mlle Lambert said once. "And to you, she will always be so. For now, she is perfectly helpless…and normal."

_She will never be normal_, Marguerite thought. She and Erik would give Solange everything they were never fortunate to possess, and everything they _did_…but she would never be normal. It was impossible for her, with the life she would have, and her parentage. But it was not regrettable, no, not at all. Her life would be wonderful. They would send her to school, and she would grow up into a brilliant, talented woman. Nothing would be beyond her reach; nothing would be impossible for her. She would have the world at her fingertips. _I had to fight to let her live, and now there's nothing I would deny her_.

Marguerite could never convey just how grateful she was for Mlle Lambert. The woman cooked and cleaned, and always ready with some advice. Her smiles were rare, but lit up the room when they came, however briefly. She and Nadir shared warm camaraderie, but Marguerite could not deny the slightest undercurrent of something more. She wanted to ask Erik, come spring, to build them a little cabin on the property. He would never agree; he was very resentful of the woman's presence, especially when he was composing. She left him alone, but it was the _principle_ of the thing.

And spring took a long time to come.

When Mlle Lambert was at work, Erik still knew Marguerite was in very capable hands, despite his dislike of the older woman. He took to spending less time in the house and more hours out in the barn, despite the cold. Marguerite was desperate to know what he was doing out there, but did not ask. She was gradually learning—there were things Erik would tell when he wanted her to know, _if _he did, and not one second before then. Why was it hard for her to remember that sometimes?

Solange was about five weeks old—at that time in February when it seemed to drag on insufferably, never to end—when Marguerite found out what her husband had been up to. She was reading Solange some poetry by Chateaubriand, and the baby watched her with bright eyes. Erik came into the room, startling Marguerite. She had not heard him coming, and not noticed him until he stood a foot away from her.

"Drink this," Erik said, holding out a small red bottle. She frowned at him, standing up and putting the book aside. That bottle looked quite menacing.

"Erik—?"

"I know you'd rather have scores of children like any other good Catholic, but this is for your own benefit." His face was stony, his mouth tightened into a thin line. He looked quite resolved.

"What is this about?" Eyeing the bottle suspiciously, she reached out, but drew her hand back just before taking it. "What does it do?"

He sighed, impatient at her question, and apparently reluctant to tell her. "It merely prevents conception."

Now fully realizing what he was offering to her, her eyelids drooped. "I see you wish to deny yourself nothing," she said sardonically, putting hardly a thought to her own words. Her frown deepened in consideration. "What is it made of?"

"Nothing harmful, I assure you. I doubt you would recognize any of the ingredients, anyway."

"Am I an idiot, Erik?"

Gritting his teeth, he said, "Absolutely not. It would do you well to cease taking offense at everything. I'm not trying to poison you, my dear. The gypsies used this on occasion."

Her expression changed to one of shock, and she stepped back from him. "I'm not swallowing a drop of that pagan magic!"

Erik sneered. Even within the woman he loved, there existed the same fear, the same hypocrisy, he had faced since an early age. "That _pagan magic _was what stanched the bleeding that would have killed you before!"

"I would have been fine," she mumbled. "Madame Busque said it was not so bad."

"She lied to keep you quiet. It was getting worse."

"Erik, I don't want to have this argument right now."

"Then _drink_, and just forget about it!"

"Why today?" She took a step closer to him. "What did you have in mind?"

If she were someone else, he might have throttled her. "I do not think you an idiot, my dear, but that question might have qualified."

Even after all this time, she still flushed rather deeply. "Oh, I see…_docteur_." She stared at the bottle for a while before finally taking it from his hand and bringing it to her lips. It took even longer before she tipped it up, tilting her head back to let it flow down into her throat. She shuddered and made a disgusted face. "It's foul!" With one more tremor, she glared at the empty bottle. "Well, I can't take _that_ again."

"Every day. Twice a day, preferably."

She shook her head. "No, I can't."

"Have you got a better idea?" he said through clenched teeth. "Do you even know how long it has taken me to remember the recipe and recreate it exactly?"

"Then _you_ take it."

"It would not have quite the same effect." He saw her shivering, and moved to stoke the fire, adding another piece of wood from the box beside the fireplace. He straightened and turned back to her. She was still holding the bottle, looking at it rather mournfully, a little disbelieving, as though not quite sure what she had just done.

"What do you have against this?" Erik finally asked. "Would you rather have another child and be ripped to shreds? Would you rather—" He stopped himself, his hands clenching into fists.

"No," she said, looking up at him. "I…I understand, really. I just don't know…" She sighed and put the container on the little table, beside the book of poetry. "Apparently mothers don't tell their daughters about any of this."

Despite his exasperation, he could not bear to see her distressed. He crossed the room to her side and put his arms around her, drawing her against him. When her arms went around him, he felt the heat trickling into his veins and spreading through his body. He felt the tension increasing in his neck and shoulders, and it was made all the worse when she placed the side of her head to his chest and sighed contentedly. Unable to contain himself, he tilted her head up and brought his mouth to hers—and tasted tears. For the moment, it should have been enough, but he could not make it so.

He moved his hands to gently hold her neck and kissed her again, more deeply, his pent-up desire close to unbearable, threatening to consume him from the inside out. He abandoned himself in the taste of her, his tongue probing, exploring, and the feel of her soft skin beneath his stroking hands. It was some time before he realized that her hands on his chest were not gripping his shirt, clinging to him, but resisting. Pulling away from her, he was mildly pleased to see that her eyes were bright and she was sufficiently breathless, but he was dismayed at the tear tracks on her face.

"Please, Erik…Don't…"

"Don't what?" Cupping her face, he wiped a tear away with his thumb. "Don't let you feel? Don't let _myself?_" Planting his hands firmly on her hips, he pulled her against him and held her there. "You mustn't forget you belong to me," he whispered against her ear. "I will not be deprived again forever."

"I just don't feel right."

_I can't_…_Not now_. _I can't think of myself right now_. _I can't think only of you_. _The child_…_I have to think of our daughter, too_…_I can't lose myself and forget about her_.

He pushed her away from him again, just enough so he could look into her face. He was not entirely sure what he saw there. "You're my wife."

"Erik, you can't force me to do anything." She tilted her chin upward in a further attempt at defiance.

He smiled, that slow, enticing, dangerous grin from which she always had to look away if she was to avoid succumbing. "Oh, my darling, I know that. I don't have to _force_ you to do anything." His hands moved from her hips to press against her lower back, bringing her closer again. She moved more easily this time, and when he lightly trailed his fingers along the back of her neck, he felt her begin to tremble. "You've always been willing."

She clenched her eyes shut and winced, feeling his desire. "I know."

There was a little whimper, and then Solange pierced the tense air with her cries. Erik snorted when he felt Marguerite's body go limp with relief.

"You're safe for now," he said, releasing her to tend to the baby.

He spitefully watched Solange nurse until her greedy little mouth was satisfied, and Marguerite wrapped her up again to ward off the cold. It was only then that Erik truly understood how it would be. Marguerite would never be completely his again. Under the surface, he had always known, but now it was before his very eyes. A shame, really…he was warming up to the child, but now she was taking his wife away from him. He thought he had given Marguerite enough time, but no…He would have to be extra vigilant to find a moment to gain her back.

* * *

After another week, Mlle Lambert rode back to her home in town, promising to come back two or three times a week to help them. Erik was relieved to see her disappear down the road, though he could see that his Persian friend was disappointed. It would not be long before he, too, would be leaving them. Marguerite had also asked him to move Solange's cradle into the nursery room, and she was still taking his "medicine." Things were looking up. 

"I cannot wait until she is sleeping straight through the night," Marguerite whispered, tucking the baby in for the night—or for a few hours, at least. "If only I could ask my mother for advice, though Mlle Lambert has been wonderful." She smiled up at Erik, gently taking his hand and leading him out of the room. "It's hard to go to sleep, always knowing, in the very back of my mind, she'll be waking me up."

"Yes, I know," Erik said dryly.

"Erik?" She stopped in front of the bedroom door, sighing almost mournfully.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry if you feel abandoned." She bit her lip, unable to meet his eyes.

He frowned; all he could see of her was a blend of light and shadows from the candle he was holding in his other hand. The tiny flame caught in her eyes, and they looked eerily desperate. She looked every bit as tired as she must have felt. Solange was by far the greatest challenge of anything that needed to be done, and Marguerite had been firm in keeping her motherly responsibilities while the housekeeping went to another.

"I understand," he said, letting go of her hand so he could tilt her chin up and look her full in the face. "I didn't before, but I do now. You are exceeding my greatest expectations."

Christine had possessed a goddess' beauty, but Marguerite's simple, grateful smile almost broke him. She stepped forward and embraced him tightly, burying her face in his shirt. Somehow it took him by surprise.

She stayed there for several long moments before whispering, "Thank you, Erik. Oh, I love you…so much."

At a loss for words, he just rubbed her back until she let go of him and entered the bedroom. The fire had died down, and the room's chill gnawed and bit at her. Marguerite was shivering violently as she changed into her warm, woolen nightgown, and Erik put another log in the fireplace, coaxing the flames to spring to life again.

"I c-can't wait until sp-spring is back," she said through chattering teeth. "Do you think the baby is warm enough?"

"You had her bundled up like a caterpillar, and the fire in the room was going strong. She'll be fine. If she's uncomfortable, she'll cry, and then you'll know for sure."

"M-maybe it w-was a b-bad idea to m-move her into that room, all b-by herself." She hovered at the edge of the bed, bouncing on her toes. She so very much wanted to dive under the covers for warmth, but wondered if she ought to make sure that little Solange was sleeping all right.

"_Bon dieu_, woman! Get in that bed before you freeze to death standing there!" Marguerite quickly and silently obeyed. She curled up into a tight ball, still shaking. "It should be warmer in here soon," he added. He made a movement toward the door, but turned to look at Marguerite. She was gazing up at him rather weakly. Though the very back of his mind told him it was partly an act, he was moved.

"Are you going back downstairs?" she asked. Only the fireplace on the opposite side lit the room, and he could not tell if her lips were turning blue or not.

"No," he said, moving away from the door to change into his nightclothes. He slipped under the blankets beside her. "I'm going to stay and keep you warm until you fall asleep." Lying on his side, he put his arm around her as she nestled beside him, facing him and chuckling.

"And th-then I'll be waking up again in a few hours."

For several minutes, all they could hear was the crackling of the lively fire. It was a comforting sound.

"I can't sleep," she said, her voice sounding strangely different in the cool darkness. Erik was startled, but did not jump, when he felt her lips brush his shoulder. Her words became so soft he had to strain his ears to hear her. "I don't want to."

"Marguerite," he murmured. Her name almost caught in his throat as her fingertips danced over his chest and under his neck. "You're too weary from—"

"Don't deceive yourself," she whispered, kissing the edge of his jaw, and then the very corner of his mouth. "You want this, too." She placed her hand on his chest. "Your heart is pounding." Her hand glided over his abdomen, and he seized it, his own warm with anticipation.

"You have to take care of yourself." His voice was lower, thick with restrained emotion, but with a warning in it, too. "If you still have to wait, tell me _now_."

"_You _take care of me, Erik." Her lips moved to his ear. "Keep me warm, like you said." She swallowed, insecurity creeping back. "Unless you don't want me anymore. I was quite vicious to you when I was carrying Solange."

"No," he said. He couldn't imagine not wanting her anymore. Even when he remembered, he could not believe there had been a time when he dreaded her presence, when she was near and he wanted to get away. All that time wasted, when he could have been with her, soothing his broken heart and giving her everything she had wanted.

But there was no point in regretting times long past. He could love her now.

Cupping the back of her head, he brought their lips together, testing to see how deeply ran her desire. She immediately softened beneath him, and her throat let out the faintest groan. She tilted her chin upward, silently allowing him to press his mouth to the pulse of her neck.

She held his face lovingly between her hands as he played at her nightgown, bestowing a soft kiss for each button undone. His fierce desire grew until he almost tore the cloth. When his hands moved to caress her bare skin, her shivering was no longer from the cold. His fingertips gently pressed against the flesh of her waist; his mouth curve into a smile against her skin.

"You're softer than I remembered," he whispered. She blushed, ashamed at the bit of extra weight, and then gasped when his hands slid up the side of her ribs. "This feels better," he added, kissing her until she could scarcely draw breath.

Smiling a little, more to herself this time, Marguerite drew back from him. She grabbed the topmost blanket and tugged until it was pulled free of the mattress. Wrapping it around herself, she slid off the bed and moved toward the fireplace, settling down in front of it, the coverlet pooling around her. Her back to the flames, Erik could only see her silhouette, but she saw the inquisitive look on his face and almost laughed out loud.

"Come here, my love." She beckoned with one hand. "It _is_ warm enough." When he came to her side, she slid her arms around his neck and gently pulled him down over her. Erik closed his eyes, drowning in sensation. Apparently having seen directly into his thoughts, she whispered, "You haven't lost me."

She thought nothing of the hard flooring as they melded and became one again, linked in body and soul. The fire within them surpassed the one that cast its dancing light upon them. She stared at his face until he met her eyes, and then she couldn't breathe. The longing in his eyes intensified, thanks to the flickering firelight, which mirrored their sinuous movements until they were again perfectly still and breathless.

A moment later, Erik leaned over her and wiped away the perspiration with a corner of the blanket. He slid his hands beneath her and lifted her, still tangled in the blanket, into his arms.

"You'll get a chill," he said, kissing her soundly before placing her upon the bed and then crawling in after her to hold her against him. The sheets, formerly icy and forbidding, felt refreshingly cool this time as she pulled them up to cover them both. Marguerite could hear his heart beating intensely, and she fell asleep to its comforting rhythm.

* * *

**A/N: —sigh— Please review! Thank you.**


	14. Forming a Bond

**A/N: Well…I really hate to tell you all this. I know that in these past months, I've been so good about updating regularly and often, but I'm afraid you shouldn't expect updates more than once a week. I've been doing that already, I know, but I just thought I would make it official. I'm not abandoning the story, but I have other things to concentrate on…sadly. And let me apologize for the briefness of this chapter, too.**

**Now for a special note to Mominator…STOP BEING SO PSYCHIC! Well, a few things are in this chapter, and you'll find out what they are once you read on. As for the other things you asked about that aren't in this chapter…You just have to be patient, don't you?**

Disclaimer: It is not mine.

* * *

"She's staring at you, Erik," Marguerite said, smiling broadly. 

"No wonder," he said, reaching for his mask.

"Don't do that." Solange's eyes—now fully changed from their bright blue at birth to a gray-green the color of the sea—were fixed on Erik, but as always, she did not cry. Instead, she just giggled when Marguerite jiggled her on her lap and tickled her under the chin. "She's not afraid of you. Just keep playing."

With a sigh of resignation, Erik tucked the violin back against his neck. After a few notes, Marguerite stood up again and held Solange, swinging her in time to the music as she moved around the room.

"It's too nice a day for this," she finally said. "I think I'll take her outside. I'll stay by the window if you want to play more."

Erik watched her through the open window, dressed in a pale blue frock that stirred in the breeze and contrasted with her dark hair. She smiled as she carried their daughter around, and her eyes sparkled. She seemed a fine mother thus far; why had she worried about that at all? Over the past few months, she had settled in and become right at home in the role. Holding a child and basking in the spring sunshine—it made a painfully exquisite scene, and something contracted in Erik's chest. He didn't belong. He was a flaw, a blot on this beautiful picture, a dark figure stealing away the joy of the moment. Closing his eyes tightly, he played a lighthearted melody he certainly wasn't feeling.

When he opened his eyes, Marguerite's face was in the window. Her eyes still laughed, but her mouth was serious when she said, "Mlle Lambert is coming."

"Is she."

"She said she'd come when the roads were dry after that rainstorm. She might have waited a bit longer."

He had been so concentrated on playing, and watching Marguerite with Solange, that he had not even heard the horse's brisk, steady cadence on the road. She went down toward the road to greet the woman, and Erik snatched up his mask again.

Marguerite laughed. "Her dress is going to be filthy," she said to Solange, even though the baby certainly did not comprehend the words.

"Good morning!" Mlle Lambert called out before dismounting. "How she's grown in two weeks!" She approached and held her arms out to the baby, but Solange squirmed and whimpered. "Oh, dear. Another time, _oui?_"

"Certainly," Marguerite said. "I thought she ought to have fresh air. Erik was playing for us a little while ago." She looked back at the house, but could not see his figure near the window. "He must have gone down to the stables." She looked back at the older woman. "Would you like to see Nadir before coming in?"

Her smile was slight. "That's not necessary. I'll do the work I've agreed to do before then." She tilted her head. "How are you feeling? Tired?"

Marguerite let out a laugh and a sigh at the same time. "Exhausted. It's all right, though, I can still function. Once this little one is asleep, I'll help you get everything done."

Mlle Lambert shook her head tersely. "Absolutely not. When your _petit ange_ goes to sleep, so will you. That's what I'm _here_ for. Go on, go on, take her inside and set her down. Then lay down yourself. Tell your brilliant composer husband to sing you to sleep or something."

On the way back to the house, Marguerite froze, suddenly remembering something she had been meaning to ask. "Mlle Lambert, will you please do me a favor when you go home?" She spoke with lowered voice, hoping Erik would not hear if he was nearby.

Her eyebrows raised at the younger woman's tone. "Why, that depends, I suppose."

"Will you send a letter for me?"

She laughed, almost relieved, though she had no idea what Marguerite was going to ask her to do. "Oh, of course! Anytime, _ma foi_."

"May I ask the recipient to write back at your address?"

Mlle Lambert looked rather taken aback. "What are you hiding?"

Marguerite smirked. "Not some illicit affair, I promise you." Oh, if Mlle Lambert but fully knew what kind of man this 'brilliant composer husband' really was! "I'm writing to a friend in Paris. A _female_ friend. I haven't seen her or corresponded with her in almost a year. I don't want Erik to know, because…well, he never really approved of her very much."

"As he disapproves of me, for whatever reason." Mlle Lambert waved one hand impatiently. "It will not kill him. But don't worry, you're secret is safe with me. I shan't even tell Nadir."

"Oh, I appreciate it ever so much. I've written her several letters, and never managed to send them. I lost my nerve, and I couldn't send them without Erik knowing, and I just don't know how he'd react."

She couldn't tell her they were hiding from virtually everyone in Paris. What would Mlle Lambert think if she found out that she was helping fugitives? But after nearly a year of living out here, even with a baby to care for, Marguerite found herself willing to forsake some amount of safety and anonymity to salvage communication with Katie again. Though their friendship had lasted but a few days, it had made a deep impression. She still missed the young dancer.

_She probably does not even remember me_.

"I'll write that letter as soon as Solange is napping."

* * *

"_Bonjour, mon ami_," Mlle Lambert said, hours later, as she entered the cool, dark stables. "Is my darling Allete well taken-care of?" she asked, referring to her horse. 

"As always, you know that," Nadir said with a smile. Erik, who had retreated there to speak to him, now moved away without a sound. Backing into the shadows, he paused, noticing an envelope in the woman's hand. He really should not have been suspicious, but suspicious he was, in keeping with his nature.

Nadir had noticed the paper, as well. "What have you got there?"

"Oh, just a list of some things she would like me to bring when next I come." Mlle Lambert held the paper, Erik thought, just a little bit tighter after she explained. Just as he turned away to complete his absconding, he heard Mlle Lambert's voice directed at him.

"Good day, monsieur. Your wife and the _bébé_ are sleeping soundly. I thought you should know before I take my leave."

Erik merely nodded before going back up to the house, leaving Nadir and his lady friend to themselves.

As she had said, he found Marguerite sprawled on the bed, the windows thrown open and the curtains stirred in the breeze. Despite the dark décor, with hangings and ornaments Madame Giry had sent long ago, springtime seemed to be fighting its way into the room. It was certainly different from the cold, dank air below the theater. Marguerite's cheeks held a soft, rosy color he had also noticed in their child's face. The winter pallor had disappeared, and the only flaw in Marguerite's skin was the presence of shadows beneath her eyes from sleeplessness.

Across the hall, he heard Solange making her own little sounds. Marguerite looked so peaceful that he hated for her to be disturbed, and so he went to look in on the child. He found her gurgling and gnawing on the cloth doll Marguerite had sewn for her. She stopped doing so when he leaned over the cradle and peered at her; she stared right back. There was much more intelligence in those gray-green eyes than he would have thought before.

"Do you realize who I am?" he asked her, speaking in Russian. He was not sure why, but the words came out that way. It seemed somehow appropriate.

She blinked. And then smiled, waving her pudgy little arms.

"I suppose that means you don't," Erik said, sighing.

Then he had an idea. How many languages did he know? He smiled to himself. Oh, what a wonderful experiment it would be! A child's mind was like a sponge, soaking up all the information the world had to offer. How much could this little one learn just by listening to him? He smirked. It _would _be rather an enjoyable diversion to teach her, to pass on all his knowledge, especially if she developed into a prodigy, as he himself had been.

Solange had not picked up the doll again. She was still watching him.

"Have you had enough of lying there?" he asked her. She cooed at his voice, and he reached down to lift her from the cradle and into his arms. He pointed one thin finger at her, and she grasped it easily. _You almost killed this child_, he thought. But she was here now, and alive. She was growing on him, despite his best efforts to fight back. What use was avoiding it, after all, living under the same roof as she?

Thank goodness, Mlle Lambert was trotting away back to town on her horse…and there was Nadir riding beside her. Well, this certainly was an opportune moment.

"You'll have to learn a few things about this world," Erik said to Solange, carrying her down the stairs and out the back door, desperately hoping she would not start crying.

* * *

Something was wrong. Marguerite opened her eyes and blinked, rather puzzled. What had woken her up? It took her a few seconds to realize…nothing. Erik was not playing music. The baby was not crying. There was no spring rain lashing against the windows, or Beatrice crying for attention. The silence was too extensive, too eerie. Something had to be wrong. Afraid to waste another minute, she virtually leaped from the bed and dashed into the nursery. 

Why did it terrify her so to find the cradle empty? Erik was not in the room, either. Marguerite hurried down the stairs, her footsteps coming close together so that she thundered on the stairs. Erik was not in the sitting room, not writing music, playing music, or entertaining the child. He was not in the kitchen, but that was certainly not unusual. Marguerite begin to have terrible daydreams of Henri sending an army of Parisian gendarmes to arrest Erik, steal away Solange, and bring Marguerite back to be his, all because he had wheedled their location from Katie, who had received Marguerite's letter…

She felt like slapping herself. Katie did not know Henri; Marguerite's letter to her was only sent today, and possibly might have to wait until tomorrow. Henri would never do such horrible things. What had sparked such terrible excess of imagination? Taking a deep but shaky breath, Marguerite left the house through the back door and headed down to the stables.

"Erik?" she called, halfway there, her legs moving faster with every step she took. "Erik!"

The first things she heard upon bursting through the stable doors were her daughter's incoherent noises and giggles. She rounded a corner, and there they were—Erik was holding Solange up so she could look into Penelope's large, damp eyes.

"_Mon dieu, merci_," she mumbled. She had not even realized she was out of breath until she began to approach them. Erik turned to her, but did not meet her gaze. She knew why; he thought this was the first time she was seeing him willingly hold their child. "Teaching her about God's creatures, Erik?" she asked with a little smile.

He cleared his throat. "I heard her in her cradle, gurgling to herself, and knew you had to sleep. So I took her out so she wouldn't wake you."

_What a cool-headed liar you are, Erik,_ Marguerite thought. "Thank you." She reached out and took Solange, who had been making louder sounds and looked more excited since seeing her mother. "Did _Papa_ show you the horses?" she asked her, holding her close.

Erik still bristled at the title. "Only Penelope," he corrected. "Nadir and that woman have gone."

"Mlle Lambert, Erik, not _that woman_. Honestly, she's been an enormous help to me. You might at least be pleased with that." She smiled slyly. "You'll have more work to do once our dear little girl learns to speak, you know."

"How did you arrive at that conclusion?"

"You'll be teaching her to sing, of course." Marguerite looked at him, slightly exasperated. "Don't tell me you hadn't considered it before."

His chin tilted up. "I might have, for a moment." Her knowing grin was maddening.

"As you like." Solange nuzzled against her. "It looks as if someone's hungry. I'd best take her back inside. Perhaps she finally will sleep. That would be a great help to me, wouldn't it, _mon bébé?_" She started back to the house, but then stopped walking and turned back around to face him.

"She's your daughter, Erik. She's part of you. Don't be afraid to get close to her…and don't be afraid of me knowing. It's what I've been _hoping_ for, don't you see? You needn't hide from either of us."

She did not wait for Erik to speak before turning back toward the house once more. It would not have mattered, for he had no words.


	15. Sweet is Pleasure After Pain

**A/N: My excuse…2 papers due at the same time, not to mention lots of reading, SAI meetings and obligations, and so on. I was quite uninspired until a few evenings ago. I hope a very long chapter makes up for it.**

**If it seems that Solange is advancing a bit rapidly for a child her age, keep in mind who her father is, okay? Humor me here.**

**This chapter's title is from John Dryden's "Alexander's Feast." It seemed appropriate.**

Disclaimer: Not mine…not really

* * *

Marguerite's hand began to shake as she looked down at the envelope she was holding. A passport in her hand to the outside world—to Paris, of all places—a letter from Katie. It was early May, meaning it had been more than a year since they fled from Paris, and she had left behind everything she knew. Here was a link to it, to her past, to her old world. Had it really been so long? Sometimes it seemed it had only been a few weeks. Other times, it felt as though it had been decades, and she and Erik were looking back on it as an elderly couple. 

How could this little scrap of paper make her feel so glad, so terrified, and yet so lonely at the same time?

She looked up just in time to see Mlle Lambert disappearing on her horse through the trees. With each visit from the older woman, Marguerite believed would be her last. Well, she had more female company now, albeit only in the form of letters—and a baby who could not yet speak. She could take care of the house and Solange…and Erik. He had come to consider their daughter quite amusing company.

Nadir would be leaving soon, as well, for surely a lady's companionship had shortened his patience with Erik's tempers and made him less inclined to suffer them. Her husband's moods would be hers and hers alone to rein in and soothe. Nadir would follow his lady friend, to be sure, and Marguerite, Erik, and their daughter would be in utter isolation. How she would miss them! She tried to acclimate herself to the idea, but it only distressed her more. Erik did not like Mlle Lambert's presence, but Marguerite did, even if their conversations were few and they had not formed a close connection.

She returned her attention to the letter in her hand. If Erik was to remain ignorant of this communication between Katie and his wife, then Marguerite would have to read it in privacy. And if she left the house without his knowing it, Erik would come find her after a little while.

She decided to find him first. With the letter curled in her sleeve and the baby asleep in her room, she approached him at the piano. She did not try to hide her emotions with a false smile or flattery. Instead, she spoke what was already true.

"I must confess that I'm feeling…not at my best this afternoon." His expression changed from inquisitiveness to dark unease before she hurried on. "I'm just rather worn, and I need a little walk and a few moments of solitude."

"I understand," he said, his features relaxing.

"I should be back before Solange wakes up, but just in case…do try to pacify her until I return, won't you?"

He only gave one nod, and she managed to smile as she took a step closer. Putting her hand on his shoulder, she bent down and kissed him lightly on the mouth. When she straightened again and began to move her hand away, he gently snatched it.

"You're shaking," he murmured, his fingers stroking her palm.

Indeed, her hands _were_ trembling with anticipation of reading her letter, and mild fear of discovery. He was still unpredictable at times, but she _knew _he would be less than happy to find her with a letter. They had been so carefully concealed, to all but Madame Giry and a few strangers, for more than a year! He would accuse her of jeopardizing all that. She held her left arm against her body, lest she move it and Erik would hear the paper crinkling inside.

His thumb slid over the inside of her wrist, and he felt her quickening pulse. Mistaking it for something other than anxiety, he smiled faintly. "Is it really isolation that you need?"

She cleared her throat. "Yes," she said, removing her hand from his grasp. "Do be patient, darling. I won't be very long."

Her face felt a little pinker, and her heart a little guiltier, when she left the room and went out the front door, headed toward the woods. She would not go to the top of her favorite hill. No, she would find a darker, more secluded place—just to spend a half-hour, no more, and absorb what her friend had written.

A tiny clearing, with a thick, fallen tree to sit on, was perfect. Dappled sunlight shone through the tops of the trees, providing just enough light to read by. Marguerite could not hold back the smile as she opened the letter. The feminine handwriting was a little untidy, as though written in a hurry. It seems the words had spilled forth from her faster than the ink could flow. Katie must have written as she spoke.

_Dearest Marguerite,_

_You cannot imagine how I felt when I opened my letter and saw who had written it! I very nearly fainted dead away_. _Even though we knew each other but a few weeks, I have missed you very much indeed_._ I am so glad to know you are well and quite happy, and with a baby! That all happened very quickly, if you don't mind me saying so, and I'm sure you won't_._ She must be a darling thing, since she is yours, after all_._ I hope your husband also fares well_._ Are you pleased with your home in the country? Will you ever come back to Paris? I do hope you're happy there!_

_I was able to go home for Christmastime, and it was so wonderful to see England again_. _I have missed it so, even though I am greatly pleased by my progress in dancing_._ I have been getting most of the soloist roles! Both Mme Giry and Mme Luvier said I quite possibly may be the _première danseuse _in the next production_._ You really must come to Paris sometime and visit me, but only if you truly can, of course_._ If I may be so bold, I must admit I cannot begin to imagine the Opera Ghost living in a little home in the country, with a wife and daughter to dote on him, and the whole happy family taking a holiday out to Paris_._ Indeed, it seems almost ludicrous, but to each his own, I suppose, isn't that right?_

_Oh, please forgive my rattling on_. _I suppose I am still so shocked and utterly thrilled to be corresponding with you that I quite don't know what to say that would have any sense to it whatsoever_._ Aside from what I have already mentioned, not very much has changed here_._ I still miss my family, and England, but it does not plague me as it did_._ I suppose I shall not have to return in order to marry after all! I think I shall be quite content with a Frenchman, if I should find one suitable for me! My sister has visited me once or twice, also_._ Her husband has taken numerous business-related excursions to Paris, and he sometimes allows her to come, with their daughter, Catherine_._ She is a lovely child, too_._ It breaks my heart to see them leave, every time_._ Oh, I do so miss you, Marguerite! Please, please come back if you can!_

_Goodness, they're calling me for rehearsals now_._ I hope this letter is not the last I may send you_. _Until then, I remain your friend,_

_Katie Jameson_

Marguerite blinked tears from her eyes and sniffed. Oh, the dear girl! After a year, and still she was not forgotten? Those had been a strange few days, when she was staying in the opera house, before she and Erik were married, and the few weeks after. Goodness, how was she ever to write back?

"I'll think about it later," she whispered to herself, tucking the letter into her sleeve again. She sat there for a few moments, listening to the birds and smelling the damp, earthy smell of the woods. Erik would know she had been crying, at the very least. She took a few deep breaths and dabbed at her eyes with her sleeves. Standing up, she lifted her skirts to step over fallen branches and damp, rotting foliage. Outside the woods, she decided to take a detour up to her hill, just for a few minutes, to think on what she had read. She would have to be clever in gaining enough time to write a reply.

When she came back to the house, Erik was not in the sitting room, or anywhere else on the first floor. Marguerite heard him singing, and a joyous smile broke across her face. There was only one other place he could be in the house, then. She tried to be as quiet as possible when she started up the stairs, but it was impossible to be silent there. She ducked into the bedroom and hid her letter among her underclothes, then went back out into the hallway.

Erik's back was turned to her as she stood in the doorway of the nursery. He was seated on the floor, and holding Solange as she sat up, facing him. When Marguerite saw the mask next to him, cast upon the floor, she placed a fluttering hand upon her chest. _Oh, Erik_.

There was still no fear on Solange's face, but only fascination. Her eyes quickly moved to her mother as she appeared in the doorway, and uttered a squeal of delight. She waved her arms, her eyes large and bright, and giggled. Erik turned to look as well. Expecting him to spring to his feet and hand the baby over to her mother, Marguerite smiled faintly. He only returned the smile and moved Solange onto his lap. Marguerite came into the room and knelt on the floor beside them.

"What were you singing to her?"

"A song I learned in Persia. I used to sing it to Nadir's son."

"It's beautiful. Could you sing it in French?"

He shook his head. "It wouldn't be quite the same."

"Oh." Erik held Solange out to her mother a little, but she shook her head. "She looks quite contented where she is."

"I'll have to make some new toys for her," Erik said. "She's getting bored with the ones she has. They'll have to stimulate her mind."

"Persia," Marguerite murmured, looking at her daughter. "Erik, what language are you speaking to her?"

He shrugged. "The ones I know."

* * *

About a week later, Marguerite was feeling very irritable indeed. Solange had begun teething—extraordinarily early, Marguerite thought, though she knew little about it. Mlle Lambert still came once in a while, which was an absolute relief, since Solange was being fussy and quite impossible. Marguerite had not yet found two minutes connected together to write a response to Katie, and though Erik tried to help care for the baby, that meant he never left her alone. Not only that, but her birthday was approaching quickly, but she knew it would remain forgotten, again. 

She felt exhausted beyond endurance, and then guilty because of it. She did not want either her husband or her daughter to suffer any sort of neglect from her incompetence as a wife and mother. But honestly, how much was she expected to endure?

"I know it hurts, sweetheart," Marguerite murmured, frustration tightening her voice, "I know. You mustn't cry so…poor darling…"

"Oh, madame, you're being very patient with her," Mlle Lambert said. "Is there anything else I might be able to do?"

"Where is Erik with that ointment?" Marguerite groaned, rocking the fussy baby and hardly noticing what the woman had been saying. "Oh, I can't do a blessed thing! I feel so useless."

"Hush, my dear. You're acting nothing short of natural, and I daresay so is the baby. Don't let go of your patience, for heaven's sake, you'll need it! I'm sure he'll be back soon. Nothing has gone terribly wrong now, has it?"

"He had very well be back soon." Marguerite cringed as the baby's cries grew louder. "Oh, Solange, does it hurt so very badly?"

"Have her gnaw on this," Mlle Lambert said, holding out a smooth wooden toy Erik had carved. It had been the bane of Marguerite's existence, listening to Solange whacking it against the floorboards or the side of her cradle, but now she willingly handed it over to the child. Her daughter immediately stuffed it between her gums, an eerily mature look of resentment upon her flawless visage. Between chews, she still emitted little whines of pain.

"Thank God," Marguerite gasped when she heard Erik's footfall on the stairs. A minute later, he was in the room, carrying a tiny wooden bowl containing some sort of paste. "I was wondering what was taking so long. This child…you'd think she was being carried though Hell itself."

"That's no place for a child," Erik said. He had been composed upon entering the room, but the two women noticed his face's unmasked half quickly take on an expression of concern. He glanced at Marguerite as he dipped two fingers into the grayish substance. "I trust you do not object to my _pagan magic_ when our daughter is in such distress?"

Marguerite wordlessly shook her head, glancing at Mlle Lambert. The older woman was staring at Erik with narrowed eyes, full of curiosity. When Marguerite looked at him, his gaze immediately met hers.

"Take the toy away," he ordered, and she obeyed. Solange's eyes clenched shut and her face twisted into a rage no one would have thought her capable of feeling, let alone expressing. Mlle Lambert's expression, unseen by the others, had transformed to shock. Four months she had known this child, and never had Solange cried with such anguish. It did not seem even wholly human. Unnoticed, she left the room.

Erik took advantage of Solange's open mouth to smear the salve onto her sore gums. She gagged and waved her arms in a feeble act of resistance, and grimaced at the revolting flavor when she closed her mouth. Erik had not been able to sweeten it without ruining its effectiveness. He set the cup aside and held out his arms. The baby made a face and smacked her lips, but at least she had stopped bawling.

"Let me have her," he said softly. Marguerite relinquished her to him, and Solange began to squirm. He stroked her fine, silky hair and started singing; mother and child were silently enraptured. Solange's distress had been soothed and forgotten, and Marguerite felt her frustration melting away, leaving her weakened. Neither of them understood his song, for Solange was too young and Marguerite did not know the language.

Finally, Erik ceased his music and placed a half-asleep baby in her cradle. Marguerite glanced around to see how Mlle Lambert was reacting to his voice, but she was nowhere to be seen. Erik stepped up beside her and placed an arm around her shoulder. At his touch, she turned her press herself against him, burying her face in his shirt. To his surprise, she began to weep, shaking with sobs she was barely holding back.

"_Bon dieu_, Erik," she moaned, "I don't know what I'm doing!"

Alarmed, his arms enclosed her. "Not true," he said, his intoxicating voice barely a whisper.

"I'm horribly inept. I'm losing my tolerance. I can't give you and Solange the love and attention you both need and deserve. I hear her crying and feel so helpless, especially when I can't comprehend what has upset her."

"Now you're being irrational," he said.

"But it's eating me up inside! I'm so tired, and I know you and Mlle Lambert try to help, but I just can't seem to become proficient at caring for my own child. Maybe I was never _supposed_ to be a mother. Maybe I wasn't ready. Maybe you should have had a daughter with—"

Somehow she stopped herself before she could speak the name. Without realizing it, she had been giving voice to thoughts that she had tried to bury long ago. Why did they seem to unearth themselves when she was ill-tempered and weary?

She felt Erik stiffen, but did not dare pull away from him. True, he was her comfort, but after her tongue had been loosened, she did not want to see his face. Of all the things to mention!

_Christine, will you taint our marriage forever? Will you never cease to be the treasure he just can't forget?_

She felt pressure on her shoulders, and finally looked up. Erik was moving back, nudging her away from him. His eyes glittered, clearly telling her that she had trespassed on forbidden property, on dangerous ground that was far better left alone. He finally turned around and silently, bitterly left the room and headed down the stairs.

_Fool!_ she screamed inside herself. _Was that supposed to make it all better? The next time you feel stretched to the limit, remember all that you know Erik has suffered, and keep your mouth shut! You're still nothing but an ignorant snob, a little _nouveau riche _brat who wants everything and wants it perfect_. _You're pathetic_. _You are a disgrace_.

She left the nursery and closed the door, but her thoughts followed her into the bedroom. Collapsing onto the bed, she reached for Erik's pillow and buried her face in it. As she inhaled his scent, more tears came and stained the fabric. Everything had seemed to be going so well, and now it was catching up with her. She had to destroy what little serenity there had been.

Piano music drifted up from the first floor and into her ears. Passion. Desperation. Love. Loss. Anger. Desire. It was all there. With one gasping sob, she clamped her hands over her ears and curled up on her side. Not one particle of her being would gain any rest today.

* * *

"That man is impossible," Mlle Lambert said to Nadir. She frowned when he laughed, not quite the reaction she had expected. 

"I can't tell you how many times I have heard that said about him," he said, smiling.

"Why does he wear a mask? I told Marguerite I would never ask about it. I just assumed it is merely an eccentricity of his, and I told her as much." She noticed Nadir's expression had grown quite serious. "Is that all it is? After four months, I simply must know."

"My darling, it is really in your best interest not to know." He brushed his hand against her cheek and smile. "You must trust me in this."

She sighed. "Oh, if you insist. I despise not having all the facts! You should realize that by now."

He laughed again and took her hand, squeezing it lightly. "Yet you came here to help a woman you've never met, in a house you've never seen, with little pay."

"I like to help people. But this time, it was only because you asked me."

"Ah, that's right. I'd forgotten."

Shrugging, she moved away from him to pat Cyrus on his long nose. "I think I shall be leaving soon anyway. My presence here will be no longer necessary, and _he _makes it quite clear that he barely tolerates it, and only for his wife's sake. Besides, I haven't seen my brother and his wife in almost a year. It's about time I return to Paris." She turned back to Nadir, tilting her head slightly. "Would you like to accompany me? A bit inappropriate, but you know I've rarely ever been concerned about such matters. I'm too stubborn to change and too old to care."

"You? You're a young flower," Nadir said, making her laugh this time. "I might still be needed here, though."

"Oh, but you're far from appreciated."

"I realize that, but you do not know Erik at all, and few know him as I do. I knew him in many circumstances, in several environments. I knew him at the height of his power, his darkest of times, and in a weakness that almost broke him. He is forever an enigma, my darling, and that is all I can tell you about him. He loves few, but those he loves, he loves forever. I swore my friendship and my loyalty to him long ago, and I cannot break it, for I know that I have his, despite many things."

"He has his wife to care for him. He has a child to love"

"His daughter is not quite old enough to offer intellectually stimulating company quite yet, is she? And his wife is young and preoccupied with being a mother for the first time. She has her own internal struggles, I daresay."

Mlle Lambert lifted her chin slightly. "That is none of your concern."

"Of course not." He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. "I think he needs another man to help him to be a husband and father, though. And Marguerite needs another man to help her understand him. Again I ask you—trust me. If you must go to Paris, go, and I will join you later."

She shook her head and took his hand. "I don't want to leave you here, Nadir. I want you to come with me."

"We'll have to see," he said earnestly. "Stay in town for a few more weeks. I'll see what I can do. In the meantime, get some rest. You look tired."

"Nothing like poor Marguerite. She never seemed weak, but lately she has looked as though she is just about to break into a thousand pieces. And no wonder! The child is positively maddening. I've never seen a teething infant cry so."

Nadir smirked. She was Erik's daughter, after all, and it did not surprise _him _that she was displaying astonishingly broad, dramatic ranges of temper.

"She is so sweet and beautiful, Nadir, but…today, it was almost frightening, the look on her face. I'd never seen anything quite like it, and here I believed myself to be a woman of the world. I left the room, but they seemed quite capable of pacifying her. She had stopped crying, actually, by the time I left the house. Is that man a magician, too?"

"Of sorts."

She shook her head, looking in the direction of the small house. "Absolutely impossible."

* * *

Needless to say, the household was rather tense the next day, after Marguerite's verbal slip-up. It did not improve her mood any, but it made her more wary of every word and movement. She felt more miserable, actually, though the baby was better behaved. Erik had proved again to be just as competent as any doctor they might have summoned. Most of his words and music were directed toward Solange, though, and he had hardly any left for his wife. 

Marguerite could not forgive herself for the filth she had dredged up. Why couldn't she have left things as they were? Christine was gone from Erik forever, and he was married to _her_. They had a child together. Erik had the love he'd always lacked, and Marguerite had him. Why did she have to ruin it all by bringing up the past and flinging it in her husband's face? Deep down, she knew he still cared deeply for Christine, but he loved Marguerite too. He had to. He had told her so. Why couldn't she be happy with that?

_If I could just get some more sleep,_ she thought. _If only I could sleep for as long as I wanted into the morning, I would feel better_. _Everything would look better_.

One good thing that happened was that she found a sold twenty minutes to write back to Katie. Unfortunately, her mood was far from conducive to writing, though she knew she had to take the opportunity. Glancing over her shoulder every so often, she sat at Erik's desk and wrote a reply, filling it with as much false joy as she could muster.

_Dear Katie,_

_Please forgive my tardiness in writing back—you can understand I've had barely a moment to myself lately, with all sorts of new responsibilities_._ I am so glad to hear you are doing very well for yourself in the opera, so please accept my most sincere congratulations_. _Nothing would delight me more than seeing your solo dance onstage, but I'm afraid a trip to Paris at this time is simply out of the question_._ Do give my best to Mme Giry, and be sure to tell her Erik and I thank her immensely for everything she has been doing_.

_Erik has been composing still, but spends a great deal of his time singing to Solange, playing with her, and simply speaking to her in the various languages he knows_. _I have no idea what he expects her to pick up at that age—only four months—but I suppose it can do no harm_._ I'm very glad he's grown into the role of a father_.

_I haven't time to write much else for now, but please write me back_._ I do long to hear from you_.

_Your Friend,_

Marguerite 

Good enough, she thought. She only had to wait a few days before Mlle Lambert came back, and she could hand it over to be sent. Until then, she kept it buried in her armoire, along with the letter _from_ Katie. She went to the window and looked out at the dusky world, just in time to see Erik disappear into the stables. Leaning forward to place her brow against the glass, and then her palm, she closed her eyes and sighed, her breath spreading a warm mist across the smooth surface. Had she actually caused irreversible damage? After everything they had been through together, it did not seem as though she would. Perhaps that was the trouble; she was beginning to take things for granted.

She should have just gone to Erik and apologized for bringing up something that should have remained unspoken, but somehow could not make herself.

Solange's cry summoned her mind back from the darkness to which it had wandered. Swallowing back tears, Marguerite went into the baby's room and picked her up out of her cradle.

"_Maman _is here, _mon bébé_. I know you're hungry. You'll sleep when your little tummy is full, won't you? Yes…" She did not feel at all like allowing her to nurse, so she took her down to the kitchen and used the baby feeder. Settling into a chair while her daughter drank her fill of milk, she sang her a lullaby, all the while thinking Erik was far more qualified to do so. But he wasn't there, and Marguerite was the loneliest she had been since Solange was born. If only Erik would come back inside and tell her everything was going to be just fine.

Then again, perhaps it _was _fine, and only her wretched imagination that was making it worse.

At last, Solange was finished, and soon falling back to sleep. Marguerite carried her back up to the nursery. She had been quietly playing before, but now her mother took all the toys out of her cradle, except the rag doll to cuddle and gnaw. Seeing Solange so peaceful seemed to urge Marguerite's body to cry out still more fiercely for reprieve. It was a bit too early to go to bed, but apparently Erik did not desire her company…and she did so much want to sleep soundly. When Solange was not waking her up, she had convoluted, confusing dreams, of which she could remember only scraps.

After changing into her nightgown, she stretched out on the bed, the warm spring evening allowing her to need only the thinnest sheet over her body. The windows let in a comforting breeze that felt like angels' breath across her face, bringing with it the scent of earth and the verdant hills outside. Just before sleep had fully embraced her, she wondered if it would fulfill the promise it seemed to give…

* * *

When she woke up again, the sunlight pouring through the windows was harsh and warm. It had to be late…and Solange had not woken her up. She had not uttered a peep. 

The last time this happened, Erik had taken Solange on a little outing. But the last time, he had not been angry with her. Would he take her child from her and leave? Would he go back to Paris? Would he go back to looking for Christine and make yet another plea? Had her outburst made him realize—and agree—that she really was not a good mother for his daughter, and he should simply remove Solange from a less-than-ideal environment?

_You are being insane, absolutely insane_.

What if she wasn't? Oh, lord, she didn't want to get up, she didn't want to know…but she had to find out why her daughter had not cried for her breakfast. Finally she glanced up at the clock over the wardrobe, which confidently declared it nine-thirty on the dot. It had been months since she had slept so late. She glanced at the pillow beside her and was strangely comforted to see an indentation there. She was still staring at it when she felt the room darken. Looking up, she gasped and instinctively moved back an inch or so.

At the end of the bed, Erik's tall figure was blocking out the light from one of the windows. Despite the apprehension surging through her veins, Marguerite could not help but notice his appearance. His white mask gleamed, and his hair was clean and slicked back, still damp. He was dressed neatly, casually, in black trousers, white shirt, and his long robe. He had bathed that morning, she could tell. Even from several feet away, he smelled…divine. She could not speak, wondering what he was thinking, what he was going to say. His face was positively inscrutable.

"Good morning," was the first thing he said.

"G-good morning."

"Happy birthday."

She knew her expression had to be absolutely pitiful, but all she could manage to say was, "Oh, Erik…"

"I thought you would like to sleep. You need a holiday. Solange is with Nadir and his lady, well-fed and quite happy for now."

Marguerite covered her mouth with one hand and allowed herself to collapse back against the pillows. Everything _was _all right. Could it be true? She did not know if she should laugh or cry, and either way, if she started, she was not quite certain she would be capable of stopping. Finally she took a deep breath and said, "Thank you. It's exactly what I needed."

Erik moved around the end of the bed to sit on its edge beside her. "This is the best day of my life," he said, brushing the hair back from her face, "when you came into the world."

"_Bon dieu_, Erik, how can you say that?"

"Because you are the mother of my child. Because I know you're trying. And because you've given me all the love I ever deserve." He bent down and kissed her below the ear, where her jaw met her neck. "I'm not fool enough to just let that go."

She took his hand. "I do love you. I'm sorry for any dim-witted things I've said." She sighed. "So what am I to do with an entire day free? I've forgotten how to have any fun."

Erik kissed her again, on the cheek, his lips gliding down to graze hers. When he pulled back, he gave her a wry look and said, "I have a few ideas."

Marguerite raised her eyebrows. "Do any of them involve leaving this room?"

He paused a moment to look thoughtful, and then said, "No."

Laughing, she sat up. "I have some ideas of my own, so yours will have to wait." When he groaned, she kissed him and said, "Oh, hush. Do you realize we've been living in this house for a year and I haven't seen much of the land around it? I've been rather confined by Solange's coming." She glanced toward the windows. "And it's such a beautiful day for a drive through the countryside."

So Erik hitched Penelope up to the dogcart and they had a little excursion into the French countryside. He drove by the cemetery where he had met the old farmer, wondering aloud where he lived, if still he did. Marguerite was silent for that whole time, staring out at the headstones and encroaching foliage with melancholy eyes. Driving further still, she brightened at the sight of workers in the fields, soaked with the sweat of their labor, singing and calling to each other. A horse and rider came by, and the man glanced warily at Erik before tipping his hat to both of them. The day was approaching its hottest hour when Marguerite finally asked Erik to turn around—she missed Solange.

Mlle Lambert smiled brightly as she passed the child on to Marguerite's open arms, and Nadir took the horse and cart from Erik. Mother and father played with their child and then, when she was returned to the care of her temporary guardians, each other. Late that night, wrapped in Erik's arms, Marguerite was finally able to sleep a sleep of replenishment, without dreams.

* * *

**A/N: I'm not fishing for compliments here, but PLEASE review. It really warms my heart to put workinto this and then have people telling me what they think about it. You don't have to tell me that it's fabulous. I just hate seeing, oh, 25 hits andzero reviews.Thanks to those who already do, and if you don't...won't you try?**


	16. Growing and Changing

**A/N: It's time to say goodbye. No, not to the story, but to someone we all know and love. sniff For now, anyway. No, no, it's all right, no one in this chapter is gone for good!**

**What am I doing posting this? I have an exam to study for!**

Disclaimer: Not...Mine. Except for Marguerite, Solange, Mlle Lambert, Katie, and Beatrice...OK, so I don't own Erik or Nadir...

* * *

"Do you mean that?" Marguerite asked. 

"I'm afraid I do. I haven't seen my family in Paris for a long time, and I very much wish to." Mlle Lambert tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. It had been difficult, more so than she had expected, to tell the young mother she would be leaving her soon. Marguerite would have to get by without her help, and there was still so much to do.

"Of course." Marguerite gently dried her freshly-bathed daughter. "I'm sorry, I've been very selfish with you while you've been here. You're like an angel to us, you must know that. Erik realizes it too, even though he hasn't been exactly friendly. He's…wary of strangers."

"Think nothing of it," Mlle Lambert said with a shake of her head. "She's a lovely little girl, and you've been no trouble at all to work with."

"Will Nadir be leaving with you?" Mlle Lambert's eyebrows lifted, and Marguerite cleared her throat. "How silly of me, I'm sorry. It's none of my business."

"I've been asking him, but he seems to think he's needed here." She took the towel from Marguerite. Solange was smiling at her; she was in a very pleasant mood today. Mlle Lambert had not seen any violent fits of temper from the child since that one day, though Solange obviously had no problem at all in demonstrating when she was displeased with something.

Marguerite found herself smiling as she dressed the baby. "I know Erik is glad he's here, but Nadir mustn't feel obligated to us—to him—in any way. It's more like the other way around." She certainly did not mention her own disappointment, hoping Mlle Lambert and Nadir would stay nearby forever. But it was childish to think so. They had their own lives to live.

* * *

A few days later, sans Mlle Lambert, Marguerite was in the kitchen, while Erik was occupied at the piano—with Solange. Marguerite cringed at the loud, random notes their daughter was striking on the keys, and Erik was making no attempts to discourage her. She often heard him instructing her in music, slowly and simply, but certainly far beyond the child's comprehension. Again, Marguerite found herself wondering just what Erik expected Solange to pick up at her young age. Had Erik's mother seen signs of her son being a prodigy before he had been out of her womb a year? 

Quite sure she would not be missed, Marguerite slipped through the back door and hurried down to the stables. It was time for a long-overdue conversation with Nadir, and she was hopeful he had not gone to visit his lady in town. Sure enough, she found him around the back of the building, reading a book of Persian verse he had borrowed from Erik. He was naturally surprised to see Marguerite suddenly standing over him, and quickly sprang to his feet.

"Madame?" He looked more alarmed that simply surprised. Perhaps there was something wrong with Erik?

"Nadir, I would speak with you…about something very important."

Now there was an intense curiosity to his gaze. "Of course."

Marguerite took a deep breath. "You have to leave." The words came out a little harsher than she had intended. She tried to clear her throat and retrace her steps, but he spoke before she could manage it.

"Pardon me?"

She chuckled nervously at herself. "I'm sorry. I only meant…I don't really need Mlle Lambert's help anymore, at least can do without, although I adore her for all she's done already. Well, I really have no choice, since she's gone for good now. But she wants you to go to Paris with her, and…you should go. You _must _go."

He was still staring at her as though he could not believe she was saying these things to him. "Madame, I would never want you to think anything of—"

"Mlle Lambert told me," she interrupted. "She also said you feel obligated to stay. I'm here to tell you that you absolutely must not feel that way. You must have been a wonderful friend to Erik in Persia, to have remained so to this day. I'm sure you saved his sanity in Paris, as well. But he has me now, and Solange, and we can take care of this place quite well by ourselves." She finally stopped and waited for him to speak.

Nadir's pause was long before he said, "Madame, I cannot tell you what this means to me."

She smiled sadly. "Though I confess, I will be very sad to see you ride away from us. It's been a great privilege to know you. But…all life is change, after all, isn't it?"

"It is."

"We'll manage quite well," she said, "and perhaps we will meet again."

"Certainly," Nadir said. "I shall look forward to it." He reached out for her hand, and when she gave it, he placed the lightest kiss upon it. "Erik found a great lady when he met you."

Marguerite bit her lower lip to contain her smile and nodded at him, backing away until she was within sight of the house and then turned to go start making dinner. She actually began to wonder what it would be like, living with only Erik and their baby. The only time she had spent with Erik as her only company was that time, her time of recuperation…after Marcel…

She shook her head, not wanting to think about that. Now they would be a nice, cozy little family, out here in the country. And yet! Knowing Mlle Lambert was no longer coming to help her keep house and cook a few meals while Marguerite paid attention to the well-being of her child…it was daunting and sad. Once more, she would have to stand on her own two feet and learn to get by. Although the housework was nothing compared to what challenges awaited her the next time Erik's temper was lit. Nadir had borne the brunt of many a verbal at. He expected it, and stunned Marguerite, time after time, with the way he spoke to Erik and _moved_ in his presence when he was in his more irrational moods.

Gaining a wife had served to tame him only slightly, and having a daughter, even less so. Erik was more defensive now, in an instinctual, protective way.

Marguerite was thinking of this and grinning to herself as she sliced bread and prepared the meal. While setting the table, she glanced up to see Erik standing in the doorway. She gave him a bright smile before continuing with her task, tucking a stray lock into the arrangement of hair at the back of her head.

"Did you enjoy your little _chat_ outside?" he asked, his voice hardened. Marguerite silently cursed her face as she felt a blush forming.

"The weather outside is lovely," she said, clearing her throat. "You should take a turn around the yard, since you've been at your music almost all day." She glanced at his empty hands. "Where's the baby?"

"In her cradle."

"She's been rather quiet these past few days."

He took a few steps closer until he was in the room. "What were you so pleased to talk to Nadir about?"

So that was it. Well, there was no use in trying to deny it. Marguerite nervously licked her lips and said, "I was being honest with him. Mlle Lambert is no longer coming to help me. She's going back to Paris, and he wants to go with her. Somehow he still feels obligated to you, and I was merely telling him that you could get along quite well with only myself and Solange." She crossed her arms and tried to smile again. "I think I'm quite capable of taking care of you."

He sneered. "You needn't intercede on my behalf! Although it seems that _you _will be in greater need after Nadir has gone." He cocked his head as she looked confused. "Who will send your letters then?" He was slightly amused at the colors changing in her face—white, then a sickly greenish hue, then red and flushed.

"Letters?"

He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, and Marguerite immediately recognized it—one of the two she had, by now, received from her English friend. He unfolded it, pretending to read. "She wishes me well. How very kind of her."

"I just _knew _you'd be angry," Marguerite mumbled, grimacing.

He nodded solemnly. "It's always wise to trust one's instincts."

She took a step back. "You shouldn't be so angry. There's no harm in this—there can't be."

He came close enough for her to see her reflection in his eyes as he held the letter under her nose. "For a year we've been isolated, safe from anyone who might be searching for you, or _me_. You wanted to get out of Paris. You wanted to be free. I sheltered you and guided you here, and now you're so willing to throw it all away just to exchange gossip with one of those stupid ballet rats!"

His anger had gained momentum rather quickly, she thought. Then she wondered why she was so nervous. She had seen him in these tempers before. What would he do? Inflict bodily harm upon _her?_ Hardly. The only reason she was a little frightened was that, deep down, she wondered if he was right.

"Oh, you're such an arrogant fool," she said. "Perhaps after a year, they don't care anymore! Maybe everyone's forgotten about me. Maybe by now they believe Marcel's death was purely accidental, and his parents have shed their tears, and Henri moved on and married. If that's the case, then there's no harm in my writing to Katie."

Erik's jaw tightened when he heard names that had not been brought into conversation in almost a year, but when Marguerite stopped talking, he lifted his chin. "Then by all means, let us return to Paris." When he saw her blanche at the idea, he tipped an ironic smile. "I thought as much."

"Do you honestly think I would be writing to her if I believed it would put us in danger? Will you ever have any respect for my mental faculties?"

"It doesn't matter. _Someone _at the _Opera Populaire_ knows where we are."

She frowned. "What about Madame Giry? She's always known. You've never been concerned about her."

"She can be trusted," Erik said slowly, looking repulsed and thoroughly incensed that Marguerite would even suggest otherwise. "She isn't even officially associated with the theater anymore."

"Well, Katie can be trusted, too! I do, very much."

"How do you know? A few weeks you know this girl, and you think you can confide in her? Trustworthy people don't come that often in a lifetime!"

"I can't agree with you," Marguerite said.

"Do you not realize I made _sacrifices_ to bring you here? I left a home I had built, my _palace_, my _dream_, and I came out into the bloody countryside because you would be more comfortable and secure out here. _Merde_, now I see how much that truly means to you!"

Marguerite watched him with wide eyes. He never swore like this in front of her, at her, even in times like this. She swallowed and took another deep breath.

"How _dare _you," she said. "Don't forget who you are addressing, Erik. I cannot—I _will not_—be spoken to this way." Erik was stunned into silence for a moment, and then she said, more quietly, "Must I stop writing to her?"

"Yes," he said immediately.

Sighing, she brought a hand to her forehead, closing her eyes as though she had a headache. "Oh, why did I write to her? I should have known better. I did. I knew you were going to be so unreasonable when you found out, and I knew you would find out. I was only trying to postpone the inevitable."

"I highly doubt I'm being so unreasonable."

She folded her arms and asked, "Would it make you feel better if I told you I see your point?"

"Only if that means you're going to do as I say."

"All right. I suppose I can send her a letter and tell her it must be my last, disappointing her in the meantime. She won't even understand why we have to be hidden. Heaven only knows what she thought a year ago when we disappeared so suddenly, and she had no one to ask." She paused to look thoughtful, and then said, "What if no one comes for us? What if nothing happens, and we have nothing to fear? May I resume the correspondence?" She smiled a little, despite the situation. She felt like a child, searching for any loophole to the established rules.

She knew Erik would be able to protect them, even if Henri came for her, or sent others to do it, or if the D'Aubignes did so, still certain she had killed their son. But that would undoubtedly mean he would kill again, and that was the last thing she wanted to happen. Not only for his own sake and safety, but for their daughter.

Erik looked as though he dearly wanted to destroy _something_. "If it appears your foolish error does us no harm after all, then I suppose you may continue."

Marguerite made a low curtsy. "I am forever in debt to your exceedingly generous benevolence, my lord." She straightened and glanced at the table, now set with dishes and utensils and a plate of sliced bread. "Would you care for some dinner now?"

He shook his head, his expression slightly disgusted. Marguerite knew it wasn't the prospect of consuming her cooking—she was no longer deficient in that area—but he was frustrated at her, for taking the wind out of his sails. Without saying anything else, he turned on his heel and was headed toward the open doorway. Marguerite just shrugged.

"Suit yourself. I'm sure Nadir will be glad to have your share."

Erik paused just outside the room, stiffening, and slowly turned back around to face her.

"Perhaps," he said, "I might have a little something."

* * *

As agreed, Marguerite wrote an apologetic letter to Katie, briefly explaining that she was unable to write to her for a while, but would send her another letter when it could resume. She was, of course, most confident that it _would_ continue, and so her last few sentences were hopeful and encouraging, despite the very real disappointment she was feeling. The most painful thing about the letter was the fact that Nadir carried it with him—all the way to Paris, without any imminent plans to return. 

The time after his departure was peaceful, as both Marguerite and Erik had expected, though they had never expressed as much to each other. It was still strange, to have only her husband and daughter out in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere. Of course, now they had to go into town for their own shopping. Occasionally these trips included a visit to Dr. Busque so he could examine the baby and exclaim over her rapid progress.

By the time the summer heat had passed and the leaves were showing off a brilliant array of colors, Solange was walking with help. She quickly gained the strength to do it on her own, a month shy of her first birthday. Beatrice had entirely ceased to stay close by, for Solange took great pleasure in tormenting her—pinching her ears, pulling her tail. In fact, it was the only time Marguerite ever saw Erik show any impatience toward their daughter, when she was causing Beatrice any discomfort.

WhenChristmas came around, Marguerite and Erik were both used to her vigorous development. At the age of eleven months, Solange had progressed far beyond anything they would have expected. Her mother knew it had to be taken from Erik; she had not been so advanced as a child. The only problem was, over the past few months, Solange had grown more and more quiet, until her baby babblings and cries were minimal—only when she really had to.

At one year old and even past, she had not spoken one intelligible word, but she obviously understood them when they spoke to her. Erik still insisted on using every language he knew when having their one-sided conversations.

"I'm worried about her," Marguerite finally said. Erik was reading to Solange—in Italian—in front of the fire, and Marguerite had approached them nervously, a blanket wrapped tightly around herself. "Do you think she's all right? Children should be speaking by the time they're a year old, shouldn't they? Dr. Busque said so, and that's only the average advancement."

"She'll do it when she's ready," Erik said, sounding less assured than he had intended.

"What if there's something wrong with her?"

"Don't," he said sharply, closing the book with a snap that startled his daughter. "She knows what you're saying." He turned and stroked her dark hair. "She just doesn't want to say anything back."

"I can't help but feel a little guilty," Marguerite said. "I told you there wouldn't be anything wrong with our child, and she—"

"There's _nothing_ wrong with her. Watch." He stood up and carried Solange to the piano, standing her up on the seat, facing the keys. One hand holding her steady, he picked out a simple melody of no more than ten notes. Marguerite did watch, but nothing else happened; Erik repeated the tune, the child watching his movements with her wide, sea-green eyes. They waited.

After another moment, Solange reached out with her right hand and played the tune, repeating Erik's motions exactly. Of course, she had not mastered the same fingering skills, for her whole hand was sufficient to play one key. But she produced the same melody, and when it was finished, she smiled, as though she knew exactly what she had done and was quite pleased with herself.

"Oh, lord," Marguerite whispered. "Erik…that's the most frightening thing I've ever seen that child do."

He frowned. "I didn't think you would be displeased."

"No, that…that isn't what I meant. I just…can't seem to believe it. She's…just like you."

His frown tipped into an arrogant grin. "I could have told you that much."

* * *

_Dear Marguerite,_

_I am so glad you can write to me again_._ I was so sad when yousent methe letterasking me not to write to you anymore, but here you are, writing again! Thank goodness! Don't you know itwas quite unfair of youto write tome, and then tell me we must stop?But that's all over now_._You know I love to hear from you_. _I am so sorry it has taken me ages to write back to you, but you see, this letter had to find me first_. _I'm not living at the dormitories of the _Opera Populaire _anymore_. _I've just been married! His name is Rupert Demers, and he works with the railway company_. _His sister, actually, is a seamstress here, and that's how we met, when he came to visit_._ It's quite sad, in a romantic way, you see_. _He came courting after that first time we met, whenever he came to town, and after about a year (it was about a year ago that we met, and I never did mention it to you in the letters I sent before, because I was afraid I would get my hopes up too soon!) we were married_. _Our honeymoon was only a week before he had to leave again, and I miss him very much_. _I am still with the opera, the _première danseuse_, and so I have that to keep me busy_._ Rupert quite encourages my dancing, for we both know I shall not be able to do that if we have a baby_. _Oh, but I cannot think of that yet!_ _Anyway, all of that quite takes up my time, you can imagine_._ The season will be over, though, and I shall have nothing to do but pine away until Rupert comes home again_. _I will be able to visit all my friends, of course, for most of them still live in Paris during the opera's off-season_._ I still wish you could come and visit, but I understand that may never be_.

_Mme Giry has finally been found out (after so many years of working with Mme Luvier on the side!) and asked to leave the _Opera Populaire. _She was intending to do so already, for I hear she is not very well_. _I suppose her age is catching up with her, though she did always seem to me quite the energetic woman_. _None of us wanted to see her go, but it was quite exciting when her daughter came to visit_. _Her name is Marguerite as well, did you know? But everyone calls her Meg, at least she asks us to, but most of us can't manage to use anything but "Mlle Giry" because she is quite well-known in the opera in Rome_._ She demonstrated some of her superior skills for us, and it was so humbling and inspiring at the same time! She's such a lovely, graceful creature_. _To think that any one of us here could be in her ballet shoes in a few years_.

_I really had not intended to write this much before I sat down and put pen to paper! I'm sure you understand, though_. _How is your dear little Solange? It has been over a year, hasn't it? Yes, she was born in the winter, I think you told me_. _Is she walking? Talking? Getting into trouble? I'm sure she keeps you very busy, whatever she does! Oh, the darling thing, I do wish I could see her_. _Shall I try to travel to Eaux Froides myself, perhaps when the opera is closed for the season and Rupert is away and I have not much else to keep me occupied? I think that would be quite an adventure, although I most certainly would never think to do so without your explicit permission_. _And your husband's too, of course, that absolutely goes without saying_. _Although now that I have paused to think on it, I'm certain he would be rather opposed to the idea_. _Does he still despise me for getting drunk with you that one evening, so long ago? I don't blame him, I feel like quite the fool for doing that, still, when I recall it_. _I have touched no spirits at all, save for a little wine when it comes my way, since that day_._ Well, anyway, I'm sure we've both grown into two old wise women by now!_

_My candle is dying, I'm afraid_. _Do give your little girl a kiss from me_. _I should like to send her a present—shall I do that, at least? Take note of my new address, and I very much look forward to hearing from you again_.

_Much love from your friend,_

_Katie

* * *

_


	17. Thoughts of the Future

**A/N: SURPRISE! Yes, massive inspiration combined with very little homework equals one happy authoress and a new chapter for you all!**

**OK, sorry if there was any confusion, but just to clarify…Katie's letter at the end was supposed to be a response to an unseen letter that Marguerite sent her earlier, telling her she could correspond again. I was going to put in a scene where Erik gives her permission, but it seemed redundant, so I just used the letter. Again, sorry if that wasn't clear.**

Disclaimer: You know it by now

* * *

Marguerite sighed, feeling defeated. "Erik, this is embarrassing." 

"There's no one to listen but myself and the baby. She needs to hear a female voice."

"I speak to her all the time."

"You know what I mean. _Singing_." He poised his hands over the piano keys. "Now, let's try warming up."

"It's been a long time since—"

"Enough!" He played a few vehement introductory notes. "Begin."

_Oh, Christine, I think I pity you now_, Marguerite thought, rolling her eyes to the ceiling and heaving a frustrated sigh. _What came over me?_ He had to be disappointed in her. Perhaps he was only trying to fool himself into thinking she could sing at all. Marguerite couldn't help but wonder if somehow, when she was singing with him, she somehow brought Erik and Christine closer together. Did he think back on what might have been? Did he never cease to compare Marguerite's lower, inferior voice to hers? Did he remember the lessons he had given Christine in the shelter of her dressing-room, when he found her young and malleable?

"Marguerite, you're not paying attention. Stand straighter."

"I'm not your student, Erik, I'm your wife."

"You don't want to improve your singing?" he asked, narrowing his eyes, his voice full of accusation.

She laughed out loud. "Improve what? I can't sing."

He sighed, looking bored. "Well, you're certainly much better than when you first came to me. How do you expect to advance if you don't practice?"

"That's just the thing. I _don't_ expect to."

"I'm quite insulted, my dear. You underestimate me."

"Oh, goodness, we can't have that." She leaned against the piano. "Can I at least sit down for this practice?"

"No," Erik said firmly. "Really, Marguerite, some days you're less mature than Solange. Don't look at me like that. You said yourself you aren't my student, so cease acting like it. Do you want her to speak and sing? Set an example. If we practice, with time you won't have to be embarrassed when you sing."

"And when will I sing? At our dinner parties?" Another glance from him told her she was very close to crossing the line. She stood up straighter, taking a deep breath and preparing to be humiliated by even the simplest of warm-ups.

"You're breathing is all wrong," he said, before even playing a single note. "Use your stomach, not your chest, and then you have more control over the flow of air. That is key." When she took a few more shallow breaths, he snorted in frustration and stood up from the instrument. "This should help a little." He reached out and placed his hands on her shoulders, turning her around to face away from him.

"What are you doing?" she asked, feeling thoroughly confused when he began to unbutton her dress. _Our daughter is watching this! _"Erik? What has this to do with—"

"You'll sing more easily without this damn corset," he said impatiently. "You women and your fashions—I'm surprised you haven't fainted dead away sooner. How do you breathe?"

"Carefully," she said, feeling her muscles relax as he loosened the laces.

"Is that better?" he asked.

"Y-yes."

"Good." He sat back down at the piano. "Now, follow my lead…"

Every day they went through this, and Marguerite's voice improved. She felt proud of herself, but disappointed that she did not seem to be an encouragement for their daughter. Of course, if Solange did not speak, how could they expect her to sing? Marguerite spent countless hours pondering the girl's silence. Winter melted into spring, spring was burned up by summer, and still Solange said not a word. She pointed when she wanted something in sight, and giggled when things amused her. She continued to mimic Erik's motions at the piano. When Marguerite read to her, she could have sworn the baby was listening, and truly wondered how much she understood. And yet, with all her advancing, she remained mute.

Stimulation was everywhere to be found. Erik took the child into the woods and showed her what there was to see in nature; he and Marguerite sat on the hillside and watched a sunset, Solange between them. Marguerite carried her around town, especially on market days, and showed her the brightly-colored fruits and vegetables, and the different kinds of animals. Solange cried when they sold the cows, for they had been her favorite. The mother had ceased to give milk, and the rapidly growing young bull was no use to them except for slaughter—and neither Erik nor Marguerite would be able to consume the meat from that particular animal. Except for that one incident , Solange delighted in everything she took in—and she did indeed take in everything.

Past her second birthday, Marguerite laughed in amusement when Erik carved a miniature violin for Solange and tried teaching her how to hold it. When she managed it after only a few tries, Marguerite stopped laughing and felt uneasy instead.

Erik had said his mother had been cruel and hateful toward him. There was no excuse for that, certainly not. But how had life really been for a young widow, living with an abnormally genius child, probably ostracized from the community because of her son's physical deformity? Had she been proud, yet scared to death, not knowing how or why this came to be, and unsure how to manage? Had she feared her son? Did his absorbing mind, intoxicating voice, horrific temper, and corpse-like visage make her blood run cold? Was she driven mad when she realized she could no longer stay one step ahead of him?

Solange was a beautiful child, but it was obvious she was brilliant, as well. If she grew to demonstrate more of her father's tendencies, something would have to be done. A gorgeous face and cunning mind combined could be a blessing, or as much a curse as her father's distortion. Excessive pride and a knack for manipulation could come easily enough. Erik was certainly arrogant enough, even as he had been beaten down so much, in body and spirit.

Perhaps Marguerite was not giving herself enough credit as a mother. Of course she provided her share of discipline, and attempted to teach Solange to say—or at least _know_—her prayers. She had certainly already been trying to instill a sense of decency into her daughter, even as she questioned how much Solange understood. If she grew into a beautiful, talented, virtuous woman, it would be more than Marguerite had dared to hope for. Possibly they would never know just how she would behave in society until she was around more children.

So what was to be done? She was too young to go to school, even if she could speak, and they lived too far from town. Doubtless Erik would teach her everything he knew, and that was enough for two lifetimes. Would that give her all she needed to make her way in the world? Concern for her child consumed her mind and distracted her. Then her worry turned back around to land on Erik, wondering if she was neglecting him.

She never knew motherhood involved quite this much worrying.

One day, Marguerite put Solange down for her nap and went back downstairs to speak to Erik. She had been worrying for so long, and she never even asked Erik what he thought, if he thought about it at all. Perhaps he would have some ideas, and at the very least would provide a new point of view.

"You realize, don't you," she said, "that our little girl can't grow up to be some ignorant farmer's daughter?" They were in the sitting room, and she settled herself on the couch, trying to get comfortable.

Erik was tuning his violin. "I'm no farmer, and she's far from ignorant. Therefore, I'd have to say your concerns are entirely unfounded."

"Yes, but…Do you know what I mean?"

"Certainly." He set the instrument down to give her his undivided attention. "What do you think should be done?"

She laughed. "I was hoping you would have some ideas." He only watched her, and she knew he silently urged her to think for herself. The problem was, she had an idea, one that had only just come to her, but she was more than sure he would not be happy with it.

"Is there a convent school somewhere nearby?"

As she had expected, this question darkened his eyes significantly. He stood up and stepped forward to tower over her. She stared up his imposing figure, feeling nervous, having failed to realize he would be so provoked.

"You are _not _turning our daughter into a nun!"

Somehow, she grinned. "Perish the thought, Erik. I only wanted her to be around other little girls when she's old enough, and learn some discipline."

"I will teach her everything she could possibly need. It's the best education she could get anywhere."

"But you indulge her all the same," Marguerite pointed out. "At least, you're headed in that direction. Beauty, talent, and unfettered passion combined sounds like a recipe for disaster if you don't add self-control into the mix."

"That will only stifle her abilities. She must grow to take her place in the world, be involved, be _exceptional_. She must have the best advantage possible." His voice grew more impassioned as he kept speaking. "I will _not _have her cloistered away with a bunch of stringent nuns!"

_Her abilities_…_exceptional_…_Do you speak of your daughter, or Christine?_ Marguerite wondered sadly. Something she had once read came to mind, and it seemed like wise advice.

"'Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,'" she quoted, "as an English poet once wrote."

"Not _our_ flower," Erik said. "She is destined for greatness."

Marguerite felt defeated again. She chewed her lip, thinking hard, and finally said, "She should still be around little girls her own age…at least when she's old enough for school. I think it would be a very healthy thing for her, Erik. I really do."

"Why do you insist upon it?"

With a sad smile, she said, "Because I wish I could have had the experience. By the time my parents had money, I was too old." She glanced away, at the window. "Still, I do realize that she must live her own dreams, and not ours." She looked back at Erik. "We can't foist things upon her just because we never had the same chances—but in this, I do wish you would reconsider."

She leaned her elbow against the armrest and settled her chin in her hand. It was a slow, sleepy time of day, and she was beginning to feel it. She closed her eyes, and then felt Erik's fingers upon her hair. Looking up at him, she saw he appeared rather inquisitive.

"Is it that important to you?"

"I think it's the best thing for our little girl, and _that_ is what is important to me. You may know everything about the world, Erik, but don't forget I'm the one who carried her."

A corner of his mouth curled upward as he twisted a lock of her hair around his fingers. He swallowed. "I could," he said, "find out if there's one somewhere close to home."

"Very well. Oh, no," she added, "first let me write to Katie and ask her if she knows of a place. She may be able to find one through some of the girls in the theater." When he scowled at her again, she sighed with mock impatience. "Do calm down, my love, I'll tell her to be discreet."

"That won't stop a ballerina from gossiping."

"It will if I ask her to," Marguerite said confidently, standing up. "I'll see to it right now, while Solange is still napping." She left the room, humming to herself.

Erik closed his own eyes, fighting the familiar pain welling up inside his chest. What was he thinking? They couldn't send their daughter away. All the discipline and fatherly love in the world had done nothing for Luciana. _She_ had been sent away to school for her own good—at least he had learned as much from Giovanni when the little girl had come home for the holiday, much to her father's surprise and Erik's complete horror.

He tried to stanch the memories pouring back, but they seemed to take on amazing strength of their own, and he lost the battle. Just like nearly every other female, Luciana's presence in Erik's life had boded only ill for him. At fifteen, he had been attracted to her enthusiastic nature, her quick smile, and her young beauty. But underneath there had lain a cold-hearted immaturity that she used to constantly rankle him and dig into his peace of mind.

"_I want you to take off the mask_._"_

"_Do as she says, Erik_._"_

Dear God, what wouldn't he give to undo everything that happened on that ghastly day? He never forgave Luciana, or Giovanni, for that, but most of all, he never forgave himself. Once again, his hatred for humanity and his anger had reigned supreme, damaging everything that he had managed to build for himself. He had to start over, as he had done before, and incalculable times since. If there was one thing he didn't want to do again, that was certainly it.

He would have to make sure his daughter never became like Luciana. At least Solange had a mother—and Erik was going to make sure she didn't lose her. Besides, this was France…perhaps raising a child was very different in Italy. Thinking a little more, he wondered if Marguerite hadn't been correct. Beauty and passion were wonderful qualities, but Luciana had possessed both, and it made a cruel combination. She had learned nothing from strict schooling, but Erik's child…_Erik's_ child would be different.

"Here we are," Marguerite said brightly, coming back into the room, waving a sealed envelope. Alarmed, she stopped and stared at Erik hunched over on the settee. "Erik! What's wrong?"

He shook his head and stood up to approach her. The plain relief in his expression had Marguerite noticeably surprised and puzzled, but he ignored it and pulled her against him, burying his face against the curve of her neck.

"Nothing's wrong," he said, his voice choked. "Nothing's wrong anymore."

Concerned, Marguerite brought her arms around him, but asked him nothing else.

* * *

A month or so later, Marguerite still had not received a reply from Katie. She was very concerned and, of course, Erik was far less so. 

"Shall we take another tour of the countryside and see what there is, if anything?" he asked.

"It _has_ been quite a while since we've all gone out for a drive," Marguerite said. "But we'd have to go much farther than usual, and possibly find an inn to stay overnight. There's far too much for me to do around this house to take a little holiday just yet. This child needs new clothes, and I should make some bread, and the windows are dusty, and—"

"I see your point," Erik interrupted.

She smiled. "Why don't you go yourself and find some inspiration in nature? You haven't written new music in…two days, I think it's been. You could look for a school, while you're at it."

"Yes, well, I think _your _opinion of the place is what really matters. I'll wait."

However, Marguerite's suggestion had planted itself in his mind and made him restless. An hour or so later, Erik donned his cloak and saddled up Penelope. Solange, of course, did not voice a good-bye, even when he asked nicely.

"Naughty little girl," Marguerite said softly. "_Papa _is going to find a school for you to go to, when you're big enough. You should say goodbye to him, at least."

Erik shook his head, and embraced his daughter. "Keep your mother entertained while I'm gone. Show her what I just taught you."

Solange's sober face broke into a delighted smile, and she tugged on Marguerite's sleeve, eager to go back into the house and play the piano for her. The proficiency of her little performances sometimes disturbed her mother, but Marguerite knew better than to give voice to such things. She had tried once with Erik, and been severely reprimanded.

"Mozart was playing the piano at the age of three, wasn't he?" she asked Erik, Solange still impatiently pulling at her arm. "_Wait_ a moment, _ma petit!_"

"Somewhere close to it, anyway," Erik said. "She's in good company."

Marguerite chuckled. "Indeed. Goodbye, darling. Good luck."

"I'll return tonight."

She kissed him and waved goodbye as he gracefully mounted and turned the horse south down the lonely road. When he had disappeared down the road, she turned to Solange and said, "_Now_ you may show _Mama_ what you learned to play."

* * *

_I should have left earlier,_ Erik thought. He wouldn't get far in this daylight; it would not last much longer. He and saw an older man walking slowly across the fields, soon to be harvested, toward a house where a few candles already shone through the windows. The setting sun glared behind him. Astounded, Erik realized he was the same old man who had spoken to Erik in the cemetery years ago, back before Solange was born. 

He quickly looked away, hoping the man wouldn't notice him. Of course that was a foolish thing. A single rider on such a lonely road was sure to attract attention. He learned this firsthand when the road curved farther on, and the trees to the east grew thick and dark. Suddenly, several figures darted out from the wood's shadows. One man snatched Penelope's bridle, and though she tried to toss her head and turn away, he kept a firm hand.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Erik growled, pulling out his Punjab lasso from inside his cloak. He glanced over his shoulder—there were several of them, many of them, and he was surrounded. They all wore dark, ragged clothing, and looked like convicts. Common highway thieves, the lot of them. Erik's hold tightened. He could use the practice.

"You have to pay a toll if you want to use this road, _messieur_," said one of the younger rogues, smiling a foul, arrogant smile with missing teeth.

"Is that so?" Erik said.

"What's the mask for, _messieur?_" another one of them asked. He never did get to hear the answer, for in a moment there was the briefest hissing sound, and in the next moment his body was lying in the dust, his neck broken. As soon as he had his rope back in his hands, like magic, it was the perfect time for Erik to make his escape—but he wanted to purge this road of the band for good.

"Holy Mother of God!" still another shouted, crouching over his companion's lifeless body. "What was _that?_"

He, too, fell prey to the Angel of Doom before he knew what was happening to him. Erik did not even think that time. The others grew wary of him, but also more incensed. Not only were they daring, but they were also fools, and closed in on Erik and Penelope. Terrorized, the horse reared up with a deafening whinny. Erik held on and tried to soothe her, but she bucked once more, throwing him to the ground. She broke through the barricade of men and raced off into the growing darkness.

Erik quickly got to his feet, only to feel a blow at the back of his head. He whirled around and found a third victim. Though their crew was diminished, the thieves still outnumbered him. Another blow separated his mask from his face, and now they looked at him with revulsion and horror as well as spite. The sight of his face did not seem to discourage them from fighting him. In fact, they seemed more determined than ever. Another knock weakened his senses, and he was slow to capture the next neck within the lasso. He was kicked, punched, and verbally mocked, and the darkness became even darker. Finally he collapsed to the side of the road.

"_Merde_, something's coming!" one of the survivors said.

"Run! It's a coach. There ain't enough of us now…"

"We should hide these bodies…"

"There's no time!"

They scattered.

_Get up,_ Erik told himself, listening to them run off. _You can conquer this_. _You've got to_. _Bastards_. _They'll be paying for this soon enough_._ You have to make them pay_. But when he tried to push himself up, he failed, and the last thing he remembered was the sound of several approaching horses.

* * *


	18. Love Thy Neighbor

**A/N: No complaints, now! There hasn't been a good, healthy cliffhanger for a while, and that chapter was just begging for it.**

**Great news! I have an ending in mind. Don't worry, it's not coming for a long, long time. I guarantee this story will NOT be finished in the year 2005, that's for sure. Now, read on!**

Disclaimer:…

* * *

"Yes, darling, that was lovely," Marguerite said. "But now it's time for bed." 

The little girl shook her head, pouting.

"Don't you defy me, little one," her mother said, gently pulling her by the hand, away from the beloved piano. "Just because your father isn't home doesn't mean you can get away with _anything_." She added, in an undertone, "In fact, you get away with more when he _is _here."

_I probably shouldn't think out loud in front of her_. _There's no telling what she picks up now_.

Solange retained her sour expression while Marguerite brushed her soft, ebony locks and washed her face. She squirmed and wriggled and refused to let her mother dress her for bed, until Marguerite was nearly brought to the limits of her endurance. Normally her daughter was not _this_ much trouble, though she did always hate to be put to bed.

"Don't be difficult, _petit_," Marguerite said. "You want to be a help to Mama, don't you?" She glanced at the sky through the window. The sun was completely gone by now. Solange should have been in bed hours ago, and Erik would be home any minute. "Would you like me to read to you before you go to sleep?"

Solange shook her head no. Marguerite sighed and stood up again, but the child tugged on her skirt, still shaking her head. "Do you want something else?" She bit her lip when Solange nodded eagerly. "_Tell _me, Solange! I don't know what you want!" Frustrated tears waited just below the surface of her eyes, but she refused to grant them release. Clearing her throat, she tried again.

"Do you want Mama to sing you to sleep?"

Praise God! Solange nodded at this, and it was a relieved Marguerite who tucked her into bed.

_Dodo, l'enfant do,  
L'enfant dormira bien vite  
Dodo, l'enfant do  
L'enfant dormira bientôt._

_Une poule blanche  
Est là dans la grange.  
Qui va faire un petit coco  
Pour l'enfant qui va fair' dodo._

_Dodo, l'enfant do,  
L'enfant dormira bien vite  
Dodo, l'enfant do  
L'enfant dormira bientôt._

Solange's eyes closed lazily, and she was breathing deeply before Marguerite began the second verse. How she wished Erik was there! He could have garnered more obedience from the little girl, and the lullaby would have been sweeter. There was no doubt that Erik had formed a strong, special bond with Solange by now.

Where was he? He said he would be back the same night, and technically it was not so very late—especially for Erik, who rarely slept. Marguerite had just assumed he meant before _she _went to bed, as well. Perhaps his quest had been successful, and he was taking his time inquiring about the place. It was unlikely, but of course, really anything was possible. Well, there was nothing she could do about it. Still…

Fighting a troublesome unease, Marguerite went downstairs and lit a candle to read by. She selected a book of English poetry. Erik was trying to teach her more of the language, and writing to Katie helped, a little. However, it was more difficult to concentrate than she had imagined. Every thirty seconds she was peering out the window, trying to see something in the blackness practically pressed against the window. When the clock struck midnight, it only heightened her apprehension.

Something was wrong.

_Please God, let him be all right_._ I can't help thinking something happened to him_. _Please let him be all right_. Her mind began to recite all the possible fates which could have befallen him, but she tried to push them away. If she heeded the temptation to dwell on them, it would drive her mad. She brought her knees up to her chin and waited, as she had waited a long time ago, when the child upstairs had been little more than a heartbeat in her womb.

There was no way on earth she was sleeping now. Every sound made her jump, every chime of the clock sent her heart beating faster. By one in the morning, tears were flowing. What if she had to go look for him? There was no other horse—she would have to go on foot. Solange couldn't be left alone while her mother went off in search of him, but she was too small to take.

"Oh, Erik, please come home so I can stop worrying," she whispered, her voice breaking. She leaned forward so her forehead touched her knees. Suddenly she felt so small and helpless. Something was wrong, he was in trouble, and she had no way of helping him. What was she doing? She felt younger and weaker than her own daughter. She clasped her hands so tightly, they went numb. She jumped when she felt a hand on her arm.

"Solange!" she gasped. "What are you doing up? You have to be back in bed. What's wrong with you, child?"

Of course she said nothing. While Marguerite had not expected to receive an answer, she burst into a fresh set of tears out of her fear and aggravation. "Oh, _why_ won't you speak? God, what have I done to deserve all this?" Her face screwed up, and she covered it with her hands, sobbing. In the back of her mind, a voice told her not to let her daughter see this, but she could not listen at the moment. She felt Solange's eyes upon her as she wept.

"Don't cry, Mama."

Marguerite choked on her breath. She lowered her hands to see Solange staring up at her, eyes wide, imploring, and tearful.

"Why are you crying, Mama? Please don't cry."

Marguerite let out a strangled gasp and gathered Solange into her arms. "_Mon bébé_," she whispered, half-laughing and half-crying, over and over again. Finally, she let go and stroked the child's face, looking at her as if for the first time. "_Petit ange_," she said, "I'm so sorry I was cross with you."

"Where's Papa?"

She held back another sob. "Darling, you need to go back to bed."

"Where is Papa?"

"He's on his way home, _petit_," Marguerite said, hoping it was true.

"Am I going to school?" She spoke as if she had been doing it for years and years!

Marguerite took a deep breath. "Yes, you're going to school in a few years, when you're big enough." She touched her cheek. "Papa went to find a place for you."

"I don't want to go away."

Good heavens, the child was a sponge. How much had she absorbed? "We'll talk about that another time, all right? You need to go back to bed now."

"Can I stay up until Papa comes back?"

"No, _ange_. It's far too late. Come on, now." She led Solange back up to her room and tucked her into bed again. She hugged her through the blankets, her throat constricting. "You've made Mama very happy tonight, Solange." With a kiss upon her forehead, Marguerite said goodnight a second time and left the room. She wanted to stay with the little girl until she was asleep, but didn't think she could hold back her distress that long.

Out of Solange's sight, she stumbled into her bedroom, covering her mouth to keep from crying out again. _Erik, where are you?_ He had missed it! Their daughter spoke, and he had missed it. She had to find him. No, she had to stay, and wait. He would be back in the morning. He was just delayed somehow. Roads were muddy, perhaps, or Penelope was exhausted. No, no, no, there was something terribly wrong. He was in trouble, she knew, and couldn't deny it. Yet she was completely unable to do a blessed thing.

She couldn't sit at the window and watch anymore. She would be insane in a few hours. Instead, she put on her nightgown and curled up in bed, forlorn and angry. She had suggested he go without her! How could she have been so stupid and heartless? Not only that, but she cursed herself for telling Nadir to leave them and go with his Mlle Lambert. If she hadn't done that, he might have still been with them, and he could have gone to look for Erik…or stayed with Solange while Marguerite did.

_Please, God,_ she prayed,_ he doesn't trust You, but I do_. _At least, I try_. _Please, please take care of him, wherever he is_._ I don't know why I have such a terrible feeling, but I do_._ He's in trouble, I just know it_.

_Erik, please come home_._ Please be all right_._ What would I do without you?_

* * *

The first thing Erik thought of was how much pain he was in. His head alone felt as though it would split open any second. 

Where was he? He fought against nausea and failing vision to take in his surroundings, but he could barely move anything. There was a pillow beneath his head, he could feel that. The mattress was poking him in a few places; the ticking was crude, and probably old. There was a stale chill to the small, dim room, but there was an animal smell about it too, almost like the stables at his own home. Was he in a _barn?_

Even worse, his mask was not on his face. Panic he couldn't defeat was quickly building up inside him. He wasn't in a cage, that much was certain, but that didn't mean gypsies hadn't captured him again. Well, however weak or injured he was—and he despised either condition—he would fight them, to the death if it came to that. He was not a cowering boy of twelve anymore. Wouldn't they be surprised if they tried to exhibit him!

_I have to get back, _he thought. _I told Marguerite I would be back tonight_…He closed his eyes, aching at the idea of what she must have been wondering. And little Solange. What would she think if Papa wasn't there in the morning?

The heavy creak of an opening door interrupted his reflection. In the shadows, he could not see the man's face, but his stature was rather short and he walked with a cautious slowness of age. This could not be his captive, could it? Erik tried to swallow his dry throat, his muscles clenching, preparing to fight in whatever way he could. But then, as the man came closer, his face swam into Erik's wavering vision. It was the old farmer.

"Ah, glad to see you're awake." He was carrying cloths, a cup, and a pitcher.

_Merde_, Erik said to himself, failing to hide the bewilderment on his face.

"You took quite a beating, _messieur_. Cracked ribs, I'd wager, and a bloody giant number of bruises and cuts. Nasty one on the back of your head. It's a good thing I found you when I did, _messieur_. You're the only one to survive. Would have carted you away with all the rest if I hadn't offered to bring you here."

_Do shut up_, Erik thought. Another struggle to rise brought wave upon wave of pain crashing through him. He groaned, and then felt the man's hands pushing on his shoulders. Before he knew what he was doing, he raised his hand and captured the man's wrist in a powerful grip.

"Hold on a minute there!" the farmer said, sounding actually fearful. Something made Erik let go of him. "Easy now. You'll just make it worse that way." He rubbed his tanned, wrinkled wrist. "You've got quite a lot of strength for a fellow your age." He chuckled. "Of course, compared to me, you're still just a young pup."

"Oh, shut up," Erik finally rasped aloud.

"There, now," the older man said. "That's no way to talk. What's your name, anyway? Do you remember what happened to you?"

"I was attacked," Erik said, as though insulted at such a question. "And you're not getting my name, old man."

He shrugged, a but perturbed. "Suit yourself, although you've got quite an interesting way of showing gratitude to someone who just saved your life. I'm Pierre Benoit, by the way. You're in my barn right now, and I'm supposed to be taking care of you."

"Don't bother," Erik said. He could see clearly now, even in the semi-darkness of this room strewn with hay and rusting tools.

"Well, no one else will. My daughter certainly can't see you in her condition, and my son-in-law is just sensitive. Tell you the truth, he's a little too—_delicate_—for farm work, God only knows why he's doing it. And their children are all very young."

He smiled when Erik glared at him. "Did you think I wasn't going to mention it? Might as well get it out of the way, that's what I say. I have your mask around here somewhere," he added, looking around the room. "Well, anyway, I found it to the side of the road. I did always wonder what it was for."

The last sentence struck Erik in particular. "So you remember me," he mumbled.

"Of course. You're the fellow I met in the cemetery a few years ago. I've seen you riding around, don't think I've done nothing but stare at my crops all this time. You got a lady back at home."

So much for staying hidden and anonymous out in the country.

"With all your watching and talking, I can't imagine how you get any work done around here," Erik said. Unfortunately, that only made old Pierre laugh. Erik cast him a withering glower, and though laughter ceased, the man stayed where he was. "So I see you're not going to run away screaming."

Ah, sweet mercy, the old man was silent. But only for a moment.

"I've seen my fair share of fire and farming mishaps," he answered somberly. "And I've been to the gypsy carnivals in my younger days. Never felt sorrier for people in my life than those poor wretches they would chain up and treat like animals. Some of them had afflictions far worse than yours, let me tell you."

_How interesting_, Erik thought dryly, before being caught by a prickle of alarm. _He's probably seen me before_. He didn't remember his captors coming to _this _particular part of France, but that didn't mean anything. They could have. He had been aware of almost nothing of the outside world in those days of slavery and agonizing nights.

"So how did this happen to you?" Pierre asked.

"I was born."

"I mean how you ended up in the road, beaten half to death, with three dead men around you with nothing but broken necks."

"You don't care much about giving rest to the weary, do you?" Erik asked. He was talking too much, even for him, and his nausea was getting worse.

"You've slept well into the evening. I think it's about time you were awake and having conversation." He glanced at the pitcher and cloths he had brought. "Might as well do what I came here for."

Erik's head was spinning. He was furious at his physical weakness. He wanted to choke this stupid, babbling farmer and jump on the first horse he saw to head home. Marguerite was sure to be absolutely crazy with worry by now. He hoped Solange was behaving herself. What were they going to do once they realized something was dreadfully awry? Would Marguerite walk the countryside in search of him, pulling the little girl alongside her? That would never do. They had better stay safe and sound at home and wait. He would find his way back to _them_.

"Your wife is worried about you, I imagine," Pierre said.

"You're very perceptive."

The older man shook his head and began to dab at Erik's wounds with a warm water-soaked cloth. "Honestly, _messieur_, you're the coldest man I've ever had the misfortune to come across."

Why take care of him and complain about it? "Was I dumped on your doorstep?" Erik snapped. "You don't _have_ to do a damn thing to help me."

"I believe in charity. And no, you weren't dumped here. I stood by when they were carting off the lot of you. You'd probably be buried with the others by now, if I hadn't caught a sign of life in you." _And you being the most dead-looking of all of them,_ he wanted to add. "Hold still," he said, when Erik flinched.

There was a knock at the rickety wooden door, and Pierre jumped up with a quickness that defied his age. Erik tried to see who it was, but Pierre blocked his view of whoever it was, and, consequently, their view of him. The whispering voice he heard was distinctly feminine.

"Absolutely not," Pierre said, his own tone terse and low. "Keep that child close by."

The old man returned to his side with a plate of thick bread and cheese. "My daughter," he said. "A good soul, but a little foolish."

"Did your grandchildren want to take a look at the freak of nature hidden in the barn?" Erik asked bitterly. He cursed himself when Pierre looked at him with wary sympathy.

"My grandson is very inquisitive," he admitted. "Come now, eat some of this. You'll need to get your strength back."

"I need to go _now_," Erik said. But another attempt at sitting up forced him to realize it was not going to happen very soon. Uttering another curse, he sank back into the rough mattress.

"You're going nowhere—for a few days, at least. It's not safe to move you at all." Seeing Erik's clenched teeth, he felt pity clenching at his heart. "If you like, I can ride out to your property and bring your wife here. At least you can see her, and she'll know where you are."

The last thing Erik wanted was for this nosy, chattering farmer to know where he lived. Well, even less was his desire that Marguerite worry excessively. Not only that, but he certainly did not want to be beholden to this man for anything at all, and he was quickly accumulating a debt that was quite impossible to repay. Still…Oh, lord, for Solange to see him in this condition, and Marguerite…

_At least someone, somewhere, actually _is _worrying about you_. The thought was like a knife to his stomach, and for a moment, he couldn't breathe.

"Why in God's name would you do this?" he finally asked, swallowing his pride for just a minute.

Pierre smiled. "That's a very interesting way to phrase the question, isn't it? I told you, I like to think of myself as a charitable man, taking care of God's creatures when I can. Besides…you weren't dead, despite a cold night out in the open and one hell of a beating. There's got to be a reason you're still on this earth."

Though Erik was quiet, and not looking at him, the farmer would not leave his side. Finally Erik sighed in defeat and gave him the directions to his house.


	19. Pride and Prejudice

**A/N: Wow, I almost forgot to put up an A/N here at all. There's really not much to say, other than...I hope you enjoyed this last week and a half of quick updates, because the next one won't come for at least another week. I have mid-terms and a paper to work on, but then fall break, huzzah!**

Disclaimer: Disclaimer

* * *

Sébastien Garceau watched his grandfather coming back from the barn. No one spoke about whatever was hidden inside, but he knew he was not supposed to see it. There was something in the way his mother had been bustling frantically about the house. His grandfather had taken food out; perhaps there was an injured animal inside, with the horses and cows and everything else they had. 

"Come away from the window, Sébastien," his mother said.

"_Grand-papa_ is coming back."

"Just as well. He hasn't had his supper yet."

"Can I go see what's in the barn?"

"_No_, Sébastien!"

"Why?"

"Because Grand-papa has said so."

"Oh." Usually his mother did not give him good enough answers to his questions, but knowing his grandfather had forbidden him something carried greater weight. To hear "no" from the old man was rare, and something to be heeded. From his mother, it was not so important. "Is one of the horses sick?"

"No." She was distracted with fixing a plate of what was left from their evening meal. When her father came into the house, she did not look up until it was ready.

"Grand-papa!" Sébastien cried out, launching himself at his favorite relative before his older sister, Josette, could get to him. She was too busy helping her mother. "What's out there?"

"Nothing you need to worry about," Pierre said, patting his head. The fatigue in his tone was worrisome, but he tried to keep up a cheerful appearance.

"Who is that man?" Apolline Garceau asked her father. "Is he going to live?"

"Oh, he'll live, sure enough," Pierre said. "He's fighting with all he has. I just hope he doesn't kill himself in the process. He can barely move, but he's determined to leave as soon as possible. Thank you." He took the plate she held out for him. He didn't have much of an appetite after spending time with the antagonistic stranger, but his daughter didn't need the extra worry. He ate so she wouldn't question him.

Apolline sat down heavily. The baby she carried was making it harder to breathe. "I hope he _does _leave as soon as possible. We don't need any more interruptions. Life is difficult enough." She turned to the children, who had started squabbling, as usual. "Josette! Sébastien! Please stop fighting! Go fetch more firewood, and put it by the hearth."

Pierre smiled at his grandchildren before saying, "It will be some time before he can go home, I'm afraid. But don't worry about it, daughter. You've been saying for years that I'm getting too old to work in the fields with Gilles. I'll just watch over this mysterious fellow instead."

Her brow furrowed. "Why wouldn't you let me at least look at him? This is _our _farm too."

"He's in…very bad shape."

Apolline snorted. "Do you remember when we were in town for market day, and that man was trampled by his horse? Don't you remember when Mama died? I had to be there! Madame Giroux needed me to help her with the birth, and I had to watch her die—and my baby brother—in all that blood. If that man out there is alive, I hardly think his appearance will shock me."

Pierre was frustrated with her, but did not quite understand why. "Perhaps if you had seen your mother after she was in the ground for a year or two, then you would know what this man looks like." He immediately wished to take back his hasty words. His daughter stared at him, completely appalled and slightly confused.

"What are you saying?" she asked slowly.

"I've seen him before, but he always wore a mask. Half his face is like a Death's-head—stretched, rotting, yellow skin, and scars. You don't need to see that, especially not now." He let his eyes rest for a moment on her extended abdomen.

"And he's _alive?_ Papa, why did you bring him _here?_"

"Because he's a human being, Apolline! He needs our help."

She sighed and shook her head, closing her eyes tightly. Her father always was too friendly and too generous.

"In fact," he added, "in the morning I'm riding out to his own home and bringing back his wife to see him, just to know he's alive and in our—_my_—care."

"He's _married?_ But Papa, who would—? My goodness, she must be a sight herself."

"She's a perfectly normal-looking young woman," Pierre said. "You know, you had better—"

Just at that moment, Gilles burst into the room, his face drained of blood and his small brown eyes wild with terror. Apolline stood up so quickly, she knocked over her chair, and Pierre felt a sick, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. At the time, there was only one thing that would provoke such a reaction from Gilles.

"What the hell are you _doing_ bringing that thing onto our farm?" he yelled at his father-in-law. The children stopped, staring. Josette dropped the firewood she carried, but in the tension, no one noticed the clatter.

Pierre stood up, narrowing his eyes. "You will _not _speak to me this way in my house, Gilles Garceau! I will bring whoever I wish onto _my _farm, into _my _barn, and even in my bloody house if I wish. I won't, for Apolline's sake, but I don't need you questioning me! What did you do?"

"I was putting the horses away, and I just wanted to see this man you had 'rescued.' What were you _thinking?_"

"He's stubborn, Gilles, you know that," Apolline said. "He wants to help the poor wretch."

"Oh, hang it all," Pierre muttered, moving around the table and wrenching the door open again. The walls shook when he slammed it, and as he stomped off toward the barn, he heard their voices rising in heated discussion.

One of the horses snorted in surprise at the sight of him, so late in the evening. Without hesitation, Pierre went into the room where his generally unwelcome guest still lay supine. Was he asleep? Dead? No, his head lifted as soon as Pierre stepped into the room. The old man still refused to show any repulsion—of course it was there, no matter how much sympathy he also felt.

"That son-in-law of yours frightens quite easily," Erik said dryly.

"I'm sorry," Pierre said. Erik looked away from him, concentrating his gaze on anything but the one other person in the room. Pierre cleared his throat and said, "First thing in the morning I'll take the wagon and go to bring your wife back here to you."

Instead of a thank you, Erik said, "That's a second night she'll be worrying."

"Well, _messieur_, I can't do much else. Gilles obviously won't be doing anything for your sake, and an old man really can't take his chances on a country road, in a dark night like this one, can he? If you hadn't slept all day, perhaps I might have been able to leave earlier."

"I _hardly_ think I could have helped it," Erik growled.

Pierre found himself chuckling. "Do you need anything for now?" Once again, Erik looked away without a word. "Sweet dreams then, _messieur_. After I check on you in the morning…the next face you see will be hers."

* * *

"Is Papa coming home today?" Solange asked, for at least the fifth time. 

Marguerite stared at her. A part of her still could not believe she was hearing her daughter speaking, after three years of not a single intelligible word. A greater part did not even register what she was saying. She was still thinking of Erik, wondering where he was. For the second night in a row, she had not slept. She could not keep this up and try to hide from Solange the fact that her father was not, in fact, merely _away_, but _missing_.

"I don't know, darling," she said. "He'll come back when he's…finished with his business, I suppose."

"Oh." Solange looked unconvinced, but said nothing else about the matter. "Will you read to me, Mama?"

"Yes, of course." But her voice only chanted the words, hollow and flat. Solange sensed something was wrong, but did not dare to ask. She had already seen her mother cry that morning, and the day before. She knew it had to do with her father being gone, but didn't quite understand. He said he would be back. Why wasn't he home yet? She wanted to learn something new on the piano. She was tired of what he had already taught her. Her mother had asked her to play yesterday, many times, and now she knew it by heart. Maybe he could finally begin to teach her the violin. He always said it was still too large for her. By the time he came home, maybe she'd be big enough to learn.

"That's all for now," Marguerite said, her voice choked and hoarse. She closed the book and absently rubbed Solange's back. "Mama's tired."

She _was _tired, but there was no way in heaven or on earth she was going to be able to sleep. Even if she could, she would most likely have nightmares. It was probably insane to be this worried, anyway. But even when he was angry with her and needed to escape, Erik had not stayed away this long. He _said _he would be back, and that was supposed to have been two nights ago.

Once in a while, a more rational voice pierced through her worries.

_He's delayed, _it would say. _Only delayed, and you're worrying about nothing_.

_This can't be nothing_, the louder part of her mind said. _You know what you're feeling, and you've had such sensations before_. _Were you wrong?_

No, she had not been wrong. But what could she do about it?

Nothing. She couldn't leave Solange alone in the house, but it would not be fair to drag her all over the countryside. Her little legs would tire quickly, and perhaps she did not completely understand the urgency of the situation. Then again, there was a great chance she _did _understand, and Marguerite wasn't sure which was worse. Of course she did not want her little girl to be as worried as she was, but how could she hide her own concern? Solange had already seen her shedding tears for Erik. The little darling, she didn't even ask what was going on. She only inquired after her papa. The fact that she asked nothing more was perhaps evidence she understood completely.

"Don't cry, Mama," Solange said. _Papa would make her stop crying_. _He wouldn't want to see her doing this_. _I know he doesn't like to see Mama sad_. Neither did she, and until now, it was not something she had often witnessed.

"I know, _ange_," Marguerite said, giving her a shaky smile and lightly stroking her hair. She wasn't, but Solange must have sensed that tears were nearby. "Why don't you go try to find Beatrice and bring her in to play?" She watched the child toddle away, hardly believing it had been three years. It seemed a lifetime. She made it seem a lifetime. What would she be able to do in three more years? Six? Nine? It was inconceivable.

It was only a few minutes before she returned, having stumbled up the stairs and back down (Marguerite had offered to help her once, but her hand had been slapped away, and she never tried again). The cat was nowhere inside. She no longer ran away from Solange, who had ceased her rough play, but Beatrice took her job as hunter very seriously, and was always on the prowl.

Marguerite was about to look for needle and thread to begin teaching her some easy sewing, but then caught the sound of a wagon and horses outside. Solange's keen ears heard it at the same time, if not a moment before.

"Papa!" she gasped, skipping toward the window, eagerly peering out. Marguerite looked too, and while her heart was pounding madly, it sank at the same time. It was not Erik, of course—what would he be doing with a wagon and more than one horse? The driver was alone, and more advanced in years. When he pulled the horses to a halt, he climbed down carefully from his transportation and approached the door, glancing around curiously.

Marguerite wrenched the front door open before he was there. He stopped, startled, and then removed his hat, taking in her pallor and heavily shadowed, questioning eyes. Surely this was a woman eaten up by distress and exhaustion. She stared at him, wanting to ask, yet not knowing how to begin.

"_Bonjour, madame_," he said first. "My name is Pierre Benoit. Your husband is at my farm."

"What do you want?" she said, her breath growing rapid. "What have you done with him?"

Startled, Pierre held up both his hands in a gesture of self-defense. "Not to worry, madame, he's all right. He's been injured very badly, and can't come home. I'm not quite sure what happened, he won't say, but there were several men who—"

"But he is alive?"

"Yes, madame, very much so."

"How is he injured?" She grasped the doorframe as though it was the only thing keeping her steadily on her own two feet.

"Cuts, bruises, several severe ones to his head, and one or two cracked ribs, I believe. All the bleeding stopped, though."

"Oh, lord."

"I'll be honest with you, madame. He can barely move without hurting himself worse. But!" He swept his hat back onto his head. "I'm here to take you to him."

A fluttering hand went to cover her heart. "Oh, _monsieur_, thank you so much. I can't even…that is, I…" She cleared her throat. "My daughter is coming, too, of course."

"Of course."

Marguerite turned and looked behind her, reaching out to take Solange's hand and leading her to the doorway. "_Petit_, we're going to see Papa now." Immediately she regretted saying so. What if he was too injured for her to see him? The way the child's face lit up was tragic. She glanced at Pierre, but he was looking at Solange with a tenderness that erased any doubt she might have had about his character. Without another word, she helped Solange into the wagon and climbed up after her.

"How far is your home?" she asked.

"Just a few miles south," he said, snapping the reigns over the horses' backs.

"I want to ride the horse!" Solange blurted out as soon as they were on their way.

"Hush," Marguerite said. "Don't be rude."

"I don't mind," Pierre said. "I'm used to children. I have a daughter of my own, and she has two little ones, with a third on the way." He turned to Solange. "Would you like to drive them?" When she did nothing but stretch out her small hands for the reins, he chuckled and handed them over. "Careful, now."

"Look, Mama!"

"Yes, _petit_, you're driving them like a grown lady."

However, this activity quickly grew dull, and Solange gave the reins back to Pierre. She swung her short legs and craned her neck to look at all the land they passed by as they traveled down the road, coughing once in a while from the dust. Finally, she pointed to a little farmstead up ahead. "Is that where Papa is?"

"No, _mademoiselle_," Pierre said, "I'm afraid not. A little farther on."

Solange sat on her mother's lap, her other side, and the back of the wagon, constantly changing her mind and trying to get the best view. At long last Pierre pointed to a barn and small, two-story house.

"Home sweet home." He cleared his throat nervously. "I'm afraid…your husband is in the barn. In a little side room, perfectly all right."

Marguerite looked at him sideways. "The others…didn't want to see him?" Shame filled him as he nodded. Marguerite looked away, keeping her eyes on the barn, and murmured, "Well, thank God for _you _then, _monsieur_."

Marguerite closed her eyes as they approached the barn, praying and preparing herself to see the worst. She felt Solange pulling on her arm, and looked at where she was pointing.

"Look, Mama! There's a little girl over there."

"I see," she said.

"That's my granddaughter, Josette," Pierre said. "She's eight years old. I think you two will get along quite well while you're here." _No doubt she'll be astonished at this tiny little one who speaks better than she does_.

"Where's Papa?" Solange asked again, as the wagon came to a stop, the horses snorting and tossing their heads. They climbed down, and she looked around in all directions.

"Take my hand," Marguerite said to her, and they followed Pierre into the barn after he unhitched the horses. He pointed to a rickety door to their right.

"In there," he whispered. "He's very much in his right mind, madame, and he'll be very glad to see you, I'm sure."

Marguerite nodded and then knelt in front of Solange. "We should come in one at a time," she said. "I will go see Papa, and then I will come and bring you in, all right? He's not feeling well, and we don't want to make him tired. Wait just a minute, _petit_."

She kissed her forehead and stood up. Solange looked between her mother and Pierre, silently asking for answers. Marguerite pushed away her guilt and opened the door to the tiny, unlit room. She stood still for a few seconds after she stepped inside, waiting for her eyes to adjust.

Then she saw him, and held back a cry. He looked so wretched, stretched out on the old mattress, with a few thin blankets pulled up to his waist, his shoes, cloak, and mask on the dirty floor beside him. His hands were dark with bruises, the knuckles caked over with dried blood. As she stepped closer, she saw his face. His left side was now almost as bad as his right—his mouth was cut in several places, with a few deeper gashes along his jaw, and both eyes had been blackened. What was just as frightening was the fact that those eyes were closed. He was asleep, and it was such a rare sight, it disturbed her as much as anything else. But while she took a few more steps, his eyes flew open, and he lifted his head a little.

He had prepared to see Pierre, but the sight of his wife melted away the fierce glare he had immediately set in place. His eyes closed, he sighed in relief, and he let his head fall back again. The ache of such a sudden action made him grunt, and Marguerite rushed forward to close the distance between them.

"Erik?" She knelt in the straw beside him, hesitant to touch him lest it bring further pain. Finally she took one of his hands, and he turned his head to look at her. How relieved she was to see that familiar fire in those green eyes!

"You'll excuse me for not getting up," he said.

"Oh, Erik…Who did this to you?"

"I don't know," he said flatly. "Some highway robbers, that's all I could tell you." Defiance flashed in his eyes. "A few of them won't ever be trying that again."

Marguerite swallowed and nodded, tears glistening in her eyes. "Are you in great pain?" She reached out and brushed the fingertips of her other hand against his face. His eyes closed lazily, but his grip tightened on her hand.

"I've been worse."

"I'd like to kill whoever did this _myself_." She swallowed again. The tears were getting more and more difficult to hold back. "I was going mad. I didn't know what to think—you didn't come back that night—or last night—there was no other horse—I had no idea where to _begin_ to look."

"I'm _glad_ you didn't come after me," he said firmly. "They could have found you, too, and done worse. I couldn't kill them _all_."

With a shudder, Marguerite let her eyes travel over his face, his body, again taking in his tattered clothes and various wounds. Finally she closed her eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath. He was going to be all right. She sat straighter and leaned forward so she looked down at him. Oh, he looked so vulnerable. It was a travesty, seeing her brilliant, strong, immovable Erik this way. Placing her hands against either side of his face, she bent down and kissed him gently. When she lifted her head from his, and he reached up to brush his fingertips against her cheek.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "If I hadn't told you to go without me—"

"Stop," he said. "None of that."

"It's my fault." She brought her head down again, touching her forehead to his. "Can you forgive me?"

"Marguerite, there's nothing to forgive. It would have happened no matter what."

She stooped back down beside him, grasping his hand with one of hers and smoothing his hair with the other. Finally she forced a smile. "Is this what I looked like when…?"

"Oh no," Erik murmured, "you were in much worse shape."

"I'm sure," she said wryly.

He smirked. "At least you had that damn corset to protect your ribs."

"True," she said. "It looks as though you'll be here for quite some time."

His countenance darkened. "No, I won't."

"You can't go anywhere in this condition, Erik. And I'm not going back without you. I'll stay in here with you, I don't care. I'll get a few more blankets or something, and if you need _anything_, I'll be right beside you. Solange can stay with the fam—"

"Solange," Erik said softly, as though just remembering. "Where is she?" He lifted his head again and looked at the door, then at Marguerite again. Her smile was radiant.

"Just a moment." Her voice held barely restrained excitement. She got up and opened the door. Erik heard her whispering to the little girl, but it was only a few seconds before her tiny form burst through the doorway and dashed across the room to his side.

"Papa!" she gasped, tears now forming in _her _eyes. "Papa, you're hurt!"

Erik stared at her for a few minutes, unable to believe what he was hearing.

"_Ma petite dame_," Erik whispered, holding his hand out to her. "It's good to hear your voice."

At hearing the awe in his words, Marguerite covered her mouth, watching the scene with an aching heart.

"What's wrong, Papa?"

"Nothing, _soleil_." Erik cleared his throat. "We'll go home soon. In the meantime, you'll stay in the house with the…the family and the other children."

"I want to stay here with you!"

Solange shouldn't have been seeing him in this condition. It hurt Marguerite to see her husband so weakened; how much more his daughter? Then she heard them whispering, and she strained her ears to hear. It didn't work—she still did not understand a word. Erik seemed to be taking whatever he was telling her very seriously, and Solange listened. A few times she responded, her expression incredulous.

"_Siete una buona ragazza?_" Erik asked.

"_Sì_, Papa."

"Solange," Marguerite finally called softly. "You have to let Papa rest now. Pierre will take you to play with the other children, and you can see him later."

Solange glanced at Erik, who nodded encouragingly, and she moved away from him, reluctant. When she came to Marguerite, she gave her mother another imploring look, and Marguerite bent down to embrace her.

"Papa will be all right, _ange_. Run along now. I'll be there in just a moment." She straightened, watching her go, and turned back to Erik. "What did you say to her?" she asked, curious.

He smirked. "I asked her if she's a good girl."

"That's not what it sounded like," she said, chuckling. Was she losing her hearing already?

"It was Italian."


	20. If You Can Still Remember

**A/N: Here we go! At last, at last. Ah, fall break is just wonderful, is it not? (Too bad I still have to write a paper and practice music…) **

**This is a rather unusual chapter, as it deviates from the main plot, just to get some perspective on what else is going in this particular world I've contrived. My apologies if I haven't been very clear about the timeline of this story—I will try to do better. As of now (and the last 2 chapters), you can think of it as the spring after Solange's third birthday.**

Disclaimer: Disclaimer Disclaimer

* * *

"Ah, my sister." Michel Lambert raised his teacup as though toasting her. "I should have known." He grinned and sipped the beverage, crisp blue eyes shining brightly over the edge of the cup. "A foreigner and a heretic, eh?" 

Mlle Lambert laughed. "He would say _we _are the heretics. Or infidels, actually, is the word."

"Yes, well…" Michel leaned forward and set the cup and saucer on the little table. "Now I wish we hadn't skirted that part of the world. I might have had something to talk to him about. I'm sure we shall find something anyway. Perhaps he can tell us what it's like before we go." He turned to his wife. "What do you say, Suzette? Shall we journey to Persia next?"

"_Absolument pas_," she said firmly. "We've just come back! And it's time you got back into business."

"Oh, yes, yes, work…all that dull stuff." Michel leaned his head back and sighed as though it hurt his brain to think of it. "I shall have to find another investment to keep myself interested. Are there any new starving painters in Paris in need of a charitable patron?"

"All the time," his sister said, nodding. "But now, do tell me, where did you go for three years? I had no idea you were gone, and by the time I got back to Paris…" She waved her hand casually, as though it was the punctuation to her sentence.

"Oh, dear," Suzette said. "We toured the Continent, of course. Madrid…Vienna…St. Petersburg…Rome…Venice…I can't keep track of them all!"

"Then we sailed to the States," Lambert added. "New York, Philadelphia, Atlanta, New Orleans…We went down to Mexico, too, for a little while."

"Oh, those prudish Americans!" Suzette giggled and rolled her eyes. "With no taste. And now"—she looked around, indicating the well-decorated parlor of their townhouse—"we are back _home_, exhausted and delighted."

"And _you_, dear sister Paige? What have you been doing here in Paris, besides entertaining your mysterious, dark gentleman? Did you finally tire of living in a small town and being charitable?" He winked.

Suzette rang the bell for the maid to come take the tea things away. "Michel, you're so cruel."

"What did I say?"

"Nothing," Paige Lambert said. "Nothing at all." She looked at Suzette with make-believe scolding before saying, "I helped a few of the farm families further south, in Eaux Froides."

"Ah, yes. I hear they'll finally have a railroad station built there. Is it large enough to be a worthy venture?"

"I have no idea," she said. "I suppose the town has grown since I first arrived there, but it was only a year, a year-and-a-half, that I stayed."

"How is the French countryside these days?" Lambert took another indolent sip of tea.

"Ever full of fascinating characters," his sister said, grinning. "Even others besides a former _daroga_ of Persia."

"Indeed," Suzette said. "I should think that would be the end-all of strange meetings. I certainly would never imagine meeting a Persian in the countryside. Paris, certainly, there is no shortage of the unusual and foreign—though you have to go abroad to _really_ see it."

"What about musical geniuses?" Paige Lambert asked, lifting her eyebrows slightly

"Oh, _really?_" her brother said. He frowned. "What kind of musical genius would live out on a farm in the middle of France?"

"It wasn't a farm, really. Just a little stone house south of the town. He was unquestionably of the 'eccentric' variety. Nadir worked for him…at least, I think so. I'm not sure, they seemed to be friends, though." She shrugged.

"Ah, an eccentric old bachelor," Michel Lambert said musingly, "filling his cold, empty house with lonely music. He has a scandalous art collection and library, I'm sure, and a hundred servants to tend to him, just waiting for him to die without heirs so they can be freed from their servitude and leave the place forever."

"I never _did _understand where you obtained your dramatic flair," Suzette said, heaving a weary sigh. "At least you're still one of the most interesting men I've ever met."

He chuckled playfully and looked at Paige again. "So, dear sister, how did you come across this man?"

"I tended to his wife after she bore their first child."

Michel choked on his tea, and Suzette erupted into piercing giggles. Paige Lambert tried to keep a straight face, but soon she was laughing as well. It was a few minutes before they could all catch their breath, while the maid, standing in the corner, looked a little alarmed, and appeared to have no idea what to think. Finally, shaking her head, Suzette set down her teacup and cleared her throat.

"Remember this the next time you let your imagination go so far," she scolded her husband.

"Yes, brother, you should have been a novelist instead of the this-and-that investing you do."

Michel waved his hand. "Silly women. There's far too many of those pathetic creatures in the world…and _especially _Paris."

"Yet you insist on supporting at least one starving artist at a time?"

Paige Lambert glanced surreptitiously at the clock. She put her own teacup aside and rose to her feet. "I'm very sorry to say I've got to be going. I have to pick up a few things, and—"

"Of course you and Nadir will be coming for dinner!" Michel cut in.

"Tonight?" she asked, surprised. Nadir would not be too pleased to have their acquaintance sprung on him so suddenly, after three years of being lulled into a false sense of security.

"Goodness, no! We haven't even settled back into the place yet. Next week, I think. There's so much for us to do now that we're back in Paris." He paused for a moment, staring at his sister thoughtfully. "You said he used to work in the _Opera Populaire_?"

Taken aback by the question, she stammered a little when she answered. "Well, uh, I think so…he did say something about…being associated with it. I suppose…it wasn't so very important, of course…"

He chuckled. "I never thought I'd see my clever, matter-of-fact older sister reduced to the likeness of a giddy schoolgirl. And at your age…" He shook his head with a sigh of feigned discontent, but when she glared at him, he couldn't hide another disarming smile. "My apologies, Paige. I _did _entertain a thought or two of putting some of my not-so-hard-earned money into the _Opera Populaire_, and perhaps this dear Persian of yours could give me advice on if it deserves my time and money or not." He shrugged. "But of course, if he doesn't have quite _that _sort of experience with the place, I'll just have to see what I can do on my own."

She frowned. Something didn't seem right, but she tried to push the feeling away. She was glad, at least, that the conversation had veered away from the "musical genius" and his wife. There was something wrong about sharing too much of that experience with her family, at least she felt so. Nadir was very sensitive about the whole subject, and though there was clearly something to hide, she had cared enough about him to avoid inquiring too deeply into the matter.

So she just smiled, lightly agreed with Michel, and said goodbye to both of them—with a more specifically-dated invitation to dinner.

* * *

It had taken some time to convince Nadir that her brother and his wife had not been coerced into extending the dinner invitation to include him, as well. 

"This is my family, Nadir," she said for the tenth time, as the hansom took them through town to her brother's house. "They love me, I love you, so of course they want to meet you."

He smiled slightly. "Why do I feel too old for this situation?"

She chuckled. "Because we are. But that doesn't really matter, does it?"

He looked out the window and thought of how different this country was from Persia. After so long away, he wasn't sure he could even think of ever going back. He turned back and looked at Paige. No, he couldn't consider it. "I don't suppose it _does _matter," he said, in answer to her question.

Once at the house, the maid showed them into the parlor. Michel and Suzette were chatting away with another, younger couple Paige had never seen before. The man was completely unremarkable, with light brown hair and eyes almost the exact color. He was far from ugly, but he was just…ordinary. Not someone you might notice passing on the street unless you knew him personally. It surprised Paige; like her, Michel enjoyed surrounding himself with colorful people and bright personalities.

In startling contrast, the woman with him was breathtakingly beautiful. Dark curls were intricately arranged atop her head, and eyes the color of richest coffee peered out from a creamy face. Delicate jewels dangled from her ears and sparkled on her throat, wrist, and several fingers. Her only unattractive feature was an expression of barely-restrained loathing. Startled, Paige and Nadir hung back a little bit, but Michel sprang to his feet and ushered them in.

"Welcome! Monsieur Khan, I am incredibly delighted to meet you! We've just been discussing the affairs of the _Opera Populaire_, where Paige informed me you were once employed."

Nadir glanced sideways at her, and she just twitched her eyebrows as if to say she had no idea why her brother was saying this at the moment. It was rather a strange topic with which to begin an acquaintance.

Michel Lambert indicated the other gentleman as he stood, a stiff smile planted on his face. "May I present Monsieur Henri Laroche, and his wife, Madame Celine Laroche."

"How do you do" was exchanged among them all.

"Sit, please," Suzette said, indicating an empty settee. "Supper will be served momentarily."

"We've been talking business," Michel said brightly. "M Khan, M Laroche has been working as manager of that opera house, but only recently, so I don't suppose you know him." He turned to Henri. "Now, forgive my ignorance, but what is the current owner's name?"

His associate did not seem to hear him; he was looking at Nadir with narrowed, suspicious eyes that made Paige very nervous. Nadir was trying to avoid his gaze, but it would have been too obviously rude to ignore the young man's question.

"You used to be with the _Opera Populaire_." It was not a question, but only a flat statement. His wife, Celine, looked at him as though he had just asked a ridiculously foolish question. Nadir hesitated to answer, and Henri added, "Before M Gautier took over."

"Gautier! _That's _the man's name," Michel said, chuckling to himself. Then he realized no one else was laughing. The atmosphere had become inexplicably tense. Nadir was uncomfortable under the young man's bemused stare. Paige was on edge, watching out for anything that might threaten him. Suzette glanced back and forth between the two men, trying to decipher what was going on. Mme Laroche sat back with irritated boredom on her face.

Finally, Nadir remembered what was making him uncomfortable. _Allah, this man works with Marguerite's father_. Over the solid year he had lived with Erik and Marguerite, eventually the Persian had been trusted with a little more detail on why they fled Paris and were essentially in hiding. Still, Nadir had always sensed Erik had been holding back plenty of information, but then, what business was it of his to know it anyway?

Even so…Bloody hell, what were the odds? Three years here, and they had generally avoided the _Opera Populaire_. Now, he was face-to-face with someone who worked with the owner. This Henri Laroche might have even known Marguerite; he seemed to be the same age. In another second, his musings were answered.

"You're _the Persian_," Henri said, his voice remote and distracted. He seemed to be staring right through the older man. "You knew him."

All the eyes in the room were focused on Nadir. He cleared his throat.

"I'm afraid I've never been acquainted with M Gautier."

"Not _him_," Henri said. He shook his head a few times, slowly. "I don't believe it."

Finally, his wife spoke up. "Henri, do you _mind_ telling us just what you're talking about?"

Again, he did not seem to hear a word spoken to him. "I've heard of you," he said to Nadir. "I wasn't sure you even existed, but…if _he _exists, then of course you do. Yes…Vicomte Raoul de Chagny told me about you, taking him there. You've seen the man, and his little palace in hell." His smile was strangely cold. "I wonder…do you know where he now resides, Monsieur…Khan, is it?"

After a few more moments of weighty silence, Nadir cleared his throat. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, monsieur."

"I'm sure you do."

"Henri, just _stop this_," Celine said again.

Finally, Nadir stood up, holding his head high and squaring his shoulders. "I can see this was a mistake," he said, with as much dignity as he could dredge up from within his nervousness. "Good evening to you all." He nodded at Suzette and Michel before turning on his heel and showing himself out. Paige sprang up, casting an enigmatic look at her brother, and followed him. Once outside the house, he had increased his pace, and she had to hurry to catch up to him.

"Nadir! What was that all about?" She grabbed his arm and brought him to a stop.

"He knows who I am," Nadir murmured, apparently both fearful and confused.

"I'm starting to wonder whether I do myself," Paige said. "Come now, why don't you tell me what just happened in there."

Although his eyes were on her, she wondered if he was actually seeing her. He sighed, "Why did I think I could come back to Paris for good? Allah, three years we've been here, peaceful and left alone. Now I don't know what I'm going to do." He laughed. "I should have just stayed with Erik and Marguerite."

"Why do you have to _do _anything?" Paige asked, hurt by his words. "Who was that M Laroche talking about? Do you really know him?"

"You do, too. You just don't know it."

"Nadir, I've never seen that man in my life before tonight."

"I'm not talking about him. I'm talking about Erik."

"Erik? You haven't seen him in three years. What does _Erik _have to do with anything that just happened tonight?"

"M Laroche is looking for the Phantom of the Opera."

Paige rolled her eyes. "Nadir, you _must _be joking. That's just an old story they told to get people more interested in buying seats at the theater. People will go anywhere that's supposed to be haunted. It adds something to the experience, I suppose. Too bad it didn't work very well for the _Opera Populaire_."

"Erik…is the Phantom of the Opera."

She laughed. "Oh, Nadir, you're so charming when you lie. I'm afraid you aren't very good at it, though."

"That's because I'm _not_ lying. I'm not supposed to ever tell you this, but I don't think I have a choice. Erik is the Phantom. And if you pass this knowledge on, I don't care _who_, or _why_, but I will never forgive you the rest of my life, and we must never see each other again."

"Nadir," she sighed, "my brother must have been a bad influence. You're never so melodramatic—"

"I'm _not!_ This is real, Paige. It is very, very real. They're hiding out in the country because he wants peace. He wants to disappear. He wants _a normal life_. It's all he's ever wanted, and now that he finally has it, I will do all that is within my power to make sure he _keeps _it."

Paige's eyes were enormous in her face, which held an unhealthy pallor. "You're serious," she said faintly. Nadir only nodded. Her gaze slid away from him to rest elsewhere, unfocused. "_Mon dieu_…I cleaned his house…I helped his wife and fed their child…" She laughed again, only it was a single high, cold bark. "The mask? The music? Little magic tricks I witnessed through a window…_Bon dieu_, I should have known. Oh, I'm such an idiot."

"No, you aren't," Nadir said, trying to sound comforting. "Would you have believed me if I had told you then?"

Her eyelashes fluttered for a moment. "I don't think I would have."

"Exactly. I don't know what M Laroche wants with Erik…" He shook his head. "Well, I think I do…but I can't be sure. It doesn't matter, though. We _cannot _come into contact with that man again." He looked resolved. "I have to leave Paris."

"But Nadir…I've only just seen my brother."

He placed a hand on her shoulder. "I'm not demanding you come with me. By all means, stay. _You're _not the one he wants to interrogate."

One of her hands came up and covered his. "I can't believe you're going to make me say goodbye to you now, after all this time."

He smiled sadly. "I can't _make _you do anything."

"But where will you go? Back to Erik's house?"

Nadir smile faded into a cynical smirk. "That would certainly fail to please him. I don't know. I'll—"

"Stay."

"What?"

"Please stay. I'll tell them you left Paris. I'll tell them anything, only…don't go. Just don't, please. I know you've been a nomad for half your life. I think it's time _you_ settled down again, too." She smiled. "Go home for now. I'll stay here and tell them…something."

* * *

**A/N: Oh, trust me, the next chapter is a really, REALLY good one. Really good. Did I mention it's my longest yet? Did I mention it's complete? Did I mention it's really good? But here's the deal. I'm taking a page out of dear Nade-Naberrie's book and saying…No new chapter until I get a few more reviews. —mua ha ha— Hey, it's all up to you! —ahem—**


	21. The Torch of Venus

**A/N: Holy long chapter, Batman! That's about all I have to say. Thank you everyone for the wonderful, wonderful reviews! sends hugs and Mega-sized M&Ms to you all I hope this is worth it…**

**Oh, and thanks to Nade-Naberrie for her assistance…you should figure out why. —wink—**

**And another thing...the chapter title is from Alexander Pope's "Eloisa to Abelard"...Restoration and Romantic British Literature certainly gives pretty chapter titles...among other delights. Anywho, read, read!**

Disclaimer: Disclaimer Disclaimer Disclaimer

* * *

"_Three weeks,_ Papa!" Apolline said, smacking the ladle against the tabletop for emphasis. "How much longer are they going to be here? We haven't room or food enough for everyone." 

"Apolline, that man hardly eats a bite, and neither does the little girl. His wife is too busy fussing over him to take anything herself. Are we really suffering because they're here?"

"_Yes!_ The children can't go into the barn and feed the stock now, because Gilles forbids them from going in there while that thing—"

"For God's sake, Apolline, his _name _is Erik." Marguerite had told him when he asked, and Pierre still wondered why the man himself had been so unwilling. "Your mother and I raised you to be better than this."

She huffed. "…While that _Erik_ is recovering inside! And if you haven't noticed, just about _everything_ is difficult for me nowadays."

Pierre looked at his daughter with tender sympathy. The poor thing looked close to tears, and no wonder. She was approaching her eighth month of pregnancy, and her ever-growing limitations were frustrating. A small family of complete strangers suddenly descending upon their homestead for an extended period of time really wasn't the best thing for her. But what else could be done about it? He tentatively rubbed her back and voiced this very question.

"Nothing, I suppose," she said grudgingly.

"Here, sit down," he said, pulling out a chair from the table. "You should rest." He glanced out the window, and saw Marguerite and Solange coming back from the barn. "Here they come, now. Be kind."

"Then they might want to stay longer."

Pierre laughed. "With your hospitality? I hardly think so."

Despite Pierre's invitation to come and go around the house as she pleased, Marguerite still knocked every time before entering. She was not blind or stupid; she fully realized they were less than welcome in this place, at least by all but Pierre. Though she understood their fear, it perturbed her nonetheless. Pierre was the only one who _tried_.

Even the children had had the curiosity frightened out of them by their father's warnings. At least Solange seemed to get along well enough with Josette, despite a difference of five years between them. Little Sébastien was kept from the house by the fetching and carrying he had to do while his father and grandfather worked in the fields. Marguerite had hopes—probably in vain—that their indifference toward her daughter was not as cool as it seemed. Solange would soon reach an age that desired playmates, and it seemed these children were all she could have…until she went to school.

"Good morning," Marguerite said quietly, avoiding Apolline's eyes.

"Is it?" she asked, earning a stern look from her father. "It must be nearly midday by now."

"I do believe it is," Pierre said, trying to add brightness to his voice. "And I've gone and left Gilles out in the fields alone. I should be getting back to him."

"Don't bother," Apolline said. "You shouldn't be out in the heat of the day, and I'm just preparing the noon meal. Stay and eat something before you go back to work." Besides, she didn't want to have Marguerite and Solange in the house with her unless her father was there to act as a buffer. No matter how much she tried or how much he berated her, she could not manage to feel comfortable around them.

"Why don't you let me make something," Marguerite offered, trying to smile. "You could use the rest, and…it's the least I could do after…after everything that's happened."

_Finally_, Apolline thought. On her exterior, she sighed and took a seat. "Thank you," she said. "You should find everything you need in those cupboards…" She glanced at her own daughter, who didn't seem to know what she was supposed to do. "Josette, why don't…you and Solange go play outside for a little while." She glanced at her father, and then at Marguerite. "Stay right by the house where I—we—can see you."

The two little girls eagerly left the tense, stuffy atmosphere to play in the spring sunshine, Solange's legs working harder to keep up with Josette. Marguerite hoped Apolline wouldn't think her daughter was being made to play nanny to Solange. As she made lunch, Pierre tried to begin a conversation for all three of them, but Apolline was clearly exhausted and Marguerite was wary.

When he and his son came in for their meal, Gilles himself looked suspicious as Marguerite served up the food. However, none of them found anything to complain about, and Marguerite could breathe easily. How humiliating it would be if she burned the food, or left out an important ingredient! Gilles even thanked her, and Sébastien asked for second helpings. Finally the two men returned to their work, with the boy hurrying after them to do the lightest manual labor.

Marguerite and Josette washed the dishes, while Solange sat and stared at Apolline. Closing her eyes briefly, Marguerite hoped Solange would not say anything. She had been so good for the past few weeks…

"Mama says you're carrying a baby, and that's why you're so big," Solange piped up.

Marguerite almost dropped the dish she was wiping. "Solange!" To her surprise, Apolline smiled.

"Yes, there's a baby in here." She patted her belly. "It should be born in a month or so."

"How do you get the baby inside?"

Mouth open slightly, Apolline looked Marguerite in the face, eyebrows lifted.

"Well talk about that…later," Marguerite said, turning red. She hadn't been expecting _this _for a few more years, at least!

"When?"

Thinking quickly, she blurted out, "When we go home."

"Oh." Solange fell silent again, though she still stared, frowning, at Apolline's large abdomen. Finally, Marguerite finished the dishes and took her by the hand.

"Now, _petit_, I think it's time for you to have a nap."

"I'm not"—Solange yawned—"sleepy." She looked at her mother reproachfully with those sea-foam eyes, as though daring her to disagree. Marguerite only chuckled.

"We'll see about that," she said, helping her climb the stairs to the loft, where all the children had been sleeping. Solange tried to protest again, but her eyelids drooped. Marguerite sang a low, tranquil lullaby Erik had taught her, and soon Solange was taking the deep, slow breaths of the unconscious. Marguerite watched her for a few minutes, stroking her cheek and brushing the dark hair from her face. At last she decided to go check on Erik once again.

"I'm going to make sure my husband is all right," she said quietly to Apolline. "When I come back…I'll make supper for everyone."

"No, it's all right, I can manage."

"Please," Marguerite said. "I insist. I can't ever repay you for your patience, _madame_. Please let me do this." How she longed to place her hand on Apolline's arm, to offer some sort of comfort, a gesture toward the female companionship she had missed since Mlle Lambert left them.

Apolline shrugged nonchalantly, although inside she was beginning to feel a niggling guilt. "As you wish." She watched Marguerite leave, and wondered, _What is someone like you doing with that monster?_

Marguerite smiled pleasantly as she passed Pierre on his way back up to the house. He returned it, but the expression didn't quite reach the creases around his eyes. Instead, he looked…concerned.

"Going to see him?" he asked, his voice carrying the low tone of conspiracy.

Marguerite stopped walking. "Yes. I haven't since this morning."

The old farmer shook his head, throwing a meaningful glance at the barn behind him. "He's pacing the room like a caged animal. I found him trying to repair holes in the walls with some tools left in there, and I thought he was going to snap my neck when I tried to take them away. There's no arguing with that man."

Marguerite smirked. "If you're lucky, you might find a way. But only if you're lucky." _You certainly didn't marry a lazy man, that's for certain_, she told herself.

"He shouldn't be up and about though—those wounds aren't completely healed. I don't care _how _miraculous a constitution he's got!"

She sighed deeply, bringing her hand to her temple. "Thank you for the warning. I'll see what I can do." With a tip of his hat, he veered to the right to head back to the fields.

Marguerite shook her head as she continued on to the barn. _Erik, I'm going to kill you_…Then she stopped to scold herself. Someone had nearly done just that.

Just as foretold, she found him pacing the length of the small room restlessly, his hands clenched behind his back and balled into fists. A few rusty tools were piled against one wall, probably discarded in frustration. Well, _she _was certainly feeling no better. A deep frown cemented itself onto her face as she pushed the door fully open, slamming it into the wall, and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Erik, do you mind me asking _what _is going on?"

He glanced up at her briefly before returning his gaze to the floor ahead of him. "Nothing," he growled. "If it wasn't for your God's moronic insistence upon charity, I wouldn't be here in the first place."

"No, you'd be dead and rotting in a ditch somewhere, or carted off and buried with a bunch of criminals!" When he ignored her remark, she stepped into his path and pushed her hands against his chest. "Stop this! You need to be resting. Do you want my attention to have been in vain?"

He gripped her wrists with fists of steel. "I'vebeen resting for the past _three weeks!_ Why are we still here? If I can spend _several _hours pacing this damned room, it should hardly be any trouble to sit in a wagon for _one_."

"Calm down," she told him firmly. "Pierre and his family have been very generous to put up with us this long." Erik snorted in disgust. "But…yes, we've definitely worn out our welcome." She coughed. "Well, we might as well admit we have since the first day. I'll tell Pierre that we'll leave in the morning. All right?"

Erik narrowed his eyes. "It's only early afternoon. Why can't we leave now?"

She chewed her lip, not sure whether to be amused or frustrated by his childish impatience. At times she was convinced their three year old was more mature. Knowing he would be further agitated, she said truthfully, "I promised Apolline I would make their supper."

"Oh, for—"

"It's the least I can do!"

"For _what?_ Their begrudging us every moment we remain on their land? The _inconvenience_ of us staying here when it certainly was not _my _idea? Telling their children to stay far, far away from the _freak of nature_ in the barn?" Good lord, he was in a cage again, only this time, he was a sordid secret, rather than a thing of public amusement. He had to get out. It was suffocating him.

"You seem quite bitter about their resentment, considering you don't want to be here at all."

That managed to silence him, though it did not soothe his temper. After a moment of glaring at her petulantly, it seemed to fully dawn on him that she had come alone. "Where's Solange?"

"Asleep. She needed a nap."

A familiar spark lit Erik's green eyes…and she wasn't quite sure what happened next.

There had to have been some gap in time between the moment his lips met hers in a frenzied passion and when her back hit the rough mattress…but it was all somewhat hazy. Instinctively, her hungry mouth opened to allow the thrusts of his tongue to paralyze her senses, along with the heady, comforting sensation of his greater body weight pinning her down. She moaned into the kiss, digging her fingers into his hair and clawing at his back to pull him closer, before she fully comprehended what was happening.

Suddenly, there was too much air—Erik jerked away from her with an enormous groan of agony, turning and collapsing onto the hay-strewn dirt floor, gasping. Marguerite was up in an instant, crouching over him, her eyes widening with surprise and concern.

"Erik, I'm sor—"

"_Damn _those bastards!" he snarled. "I should have killed them _all!_"

"Shush, Erik…it's all right." She tried to help him back onto the mattress, but he waved her hands away and rose to a sitting position on his own.

"Help me stand," he hissed through clenched teeth, prodding at his ribs with his fingertips.

"Certainly not," Marguerite insisted with a shake of her head. "I can't believe you were trying to—_All right!_" She shrieked when he tried to stand on his own. "Stop it, you'll make it worse." She wrapped her arm around his waist, draping his over her shoulder, and gently pulled him up.

"Now help me to that ladder over there."

She followed his finger, looking through the doorway to the slabs of wood secured with rusted nails. "Erik, that's the hayloft…"

He tried to wrench from her embrace and move toward it alone. Marguerite groaned and went to help him again. "You are _insufferable_," she grumbled as they finally reached the rickety-looking apparatus.

He placed one foot on the first step and proceeded to pull himself up. Exasperated as she was, she held firmly onto his legs, giving him a boost every time he moved up a step. "Might I ask—_oof!_—what you intend to do?"

"Well, I can't very well have you where _anyone _could just walk in. I'd rather our daughter _not_ suffer such damage so soon, if it's all the same to you."

She felt as if someone had tied an anchor to her stomach and sent it plummeting to the floor below. A surge of blood rose in her neck and cheeks as her hands faltered on the steps, and she came very close to falling, possibly splintering the ladder and sending Erik tumbling down as well, breaking their necks. Fortunately, she managed to collect herself at the last moment and hold fast to the next rung.

"Have…me?"

The ladder wobbled menacingly when he turned to glare down at her. "I could rephrase it less delicately, if you prefer."

"Oh, no…I understand you perfectly. But…Erik, you were nearly beaten to death—"

He turned and resumed climbing. "Nothing _important _was damaged."

Her blush only deepened as he reached the top of the ladder and, wincing, crawled onto the platform, reaching out his better hand to pull her up. Marguerite hesitated for a moment, looking self-consciously into the room below her. No one was there, of course, but she still felt like a licentious schoolgirl sneaking off to meet her lover, constantly worried someone would notice and report them…

Finally she sighed and accepted his hand, trying to deny the giddy anticipation pounding throughout her body. "You are positively mad," she muttered. _Stop this now_, she told herself. _He's injured_. _He's not well_. _You simply can't let this happen, for his sake_.

"Yes, they've been saying that for years."

_Well, this way I suppose I can keep a close watch over him_._ But one little flinch of pain and it is absolutely _over!

As soon as she was on a sturdier surface, her rational thoughts were brought to a dizzying halt. Erik wasted little time in crushing her mouth in a heated kiss, one hand cupping the back of her head as his tongue slid along the roof of her mouth. Her fingers caressing his neck, he pressed her back into a pile of bristly hay, and his hips settled into a rhythmic motion. Forgetting everything else, Marguerite melted beneath his touch, writhing as her nerves ignited. She moaned aloud as his hand stroked up her thigh, pushing up her skirts with it. Then she grabbed his hand and freed her mouth.

"Erik," she said in a small voice, "I feel like a whore."

"Don't be foolish," he said, stopping to kiss her tenderly. "You know this is what you want." Of course she did not disagree, and his kisses grew more impassioned. His fingers on her skin felt like flames beneath the petticoats.

"I couldn't—tell you—just why—I do—" she gasped. "It's such—torture—_Erik, please!_"

"Now, now," he said teasingly. He smiled roguishly into her gray eyes, shadowed with the feverish desire he stoked. "No criticism, or I'm afraid you won't be reimbursed for your trouble."

She would have laughed, but the tension inside her was more than she thought she could withstand. Groaning, she pulled his head down and rasped in his ear, "_Finish this_."

Both of them jumped when an incredible crash reverberated through the barn. Erik turned around, and Marguerite rose up on her elbows to see what had happened.

The ladder had fallen.

"_Merde!_" she shrieked. Erik was laughing, both at the ladder's plunge and her atypical outburst. "What now?"

"This hardly affects the circumstances," he said. "They'll have to work hard to find us now."

Marguerite grinned and pulled him back over her. She felt like she was drowning…only she didn't want to breathe. The smell of the straw made her nose twitch, and Erik made everything else positively quake. There was no use in trying to form a single coherent thought—although she had no desire to do so—with Erik's mouth caressing her lips, her cheeks, her neck, his tongue tickling her earlobe, his hands woven into her hair, his body united with hers.

Three weeks they had been here, she realized, and numerous weeks before then since she had known her husband's flesh, and so she relished these stolen moments. Waves of decadent bliss surged through her as she arched up beneath him, crying out in ecstasy, any thoughts of discovery dissolved in Erik's touch. After several long, rapturous minutes, her body could bear not another second of such sweet suffering, and she was released with a single, trembling cry of her husband's name. He followed mere seconds later, collapsing on top of her with a strangled gasp.

For a few moments there was no sound but of their lungs dragging in warm, hay-spiced air, and then Erik began to chuckle softly. He turned and stretched out on his back, once again cringing in pain.

"Well then," he panted, "was that so bad?"

She shook her head, eyes half-closed. "I don't know how you managed in your condition. Is there anything you can't do?" She rolled over and snuggled up close to him, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, smiling, "I didn't think so."

Leaning her head against his shoulder, she frowned and stretched out her hand to lightly brush her fingertips against the receding bruises along Erik's chest, blended with the scars he already had. "There must have been a lot of them."

"Oh, do spare me the pity," he said.

"I'm sorry." After a few more moments of peaceful silence, she giggled. "I just remembered…Before I came in here, Pierre said you had a miraculous constitution."

Sitting up, Erik pulled her closer to him and kissed her again until she struggled for breath. "While we're quite trapped up here, we should test it."

"Out of the question!" She pushed away from him playfully. "You'll end up having to stay here _another _three weeks. You make me crazy." She stroked his cheek. "And I adore you." She stretched like a cat and nestled into Erik's side. He half-expected her to start purring.

Grinning, he glided his fingertips along her cheek. "We don't—_have_—to leave in the morning," he whispered.

"No," she said, laying her hand upon his. "I want to go home, too. After all, we have our own hayloft in the stables."

Erik sighed. "Except now we're without a horse to go home _with_."

* * *

Solange opened her eyes and almost jumped out of her skin. Josette was staring at her. 

"What do you want?" Solange asked nervously. She looked around, but in the house's badly lit loft, there was no sign of anyone else. Where was her mother? This other girl was looking at her very oddly.

"Why are you here?" Josette asked her without answering her own question.

"Mama says I have to take my nap."

"No, silly. I mean why is your mama still here, and you, and your papa?"

Solange sat up and rubbed her eyes, yawning. "Papa is sick, and Mama's taking care of him so we can go home."

"Why is your papa sick?"

Shrugging, she said, "I don't know."

Josette stepped back from the younger girl for a moment, folding her arms. "_My_ papa said he has the devil's face."

Solange frowned. Her mama had told her about the devil, who was evil and ugly and always tried to make people do bad things. A spark was struck in her tiny chest, and she narrowed her eyes. "He does _not!_"

Josette laughed at her indignation. "My papa _saw _him. He said he'd thrash us good if we go anywhere near the barn, so long as your papa's in there."

"Stop it!"

"Why is he so ugly?"

"I don't _know!_" Solange's voice swooped upward into a scream that sounded as though it came from a body five times her size.

Her face turning red, she scrambled to her feet and stood on the mattress where she had been sleeping. Josette was giggling at her, and Solange wanted nothing more than to remove the smile from her stupid, deceptively pretty face. Then she stopped; Josette was eight years old, and much bigger than she was. But when the older girl looked at her as though to ask just what she was planning to do, Solange launched herself at her. They both fell back to the floor with a hard _thud_.

Now it was Josette who cried "Stop it!"

"What is going on up there?" Apolline's voice came up the stairs.

"Don't—say—that—about—my—papa!" Solange shrieked in between pummeling the other girl with her tiny fists. She did not have the chance to say anything more before Josette pushed her off and almost tumbled down the stairs in a rush to get away.

"Mama, she's crazy!" Josette said.

"What happened?" Apolline asked, gasping and craning her neck to look up into the dark space in the ceiling to which the steps led. It sounded as though Solange was going to pound right through the roof, not mention the fierce, tearful sobs she was emitting. Apolline planted her hands firmly on her daughter's shoulders.

"Josette, run to the fields and get your grandfather, and tell him to bring Marguerite to the house. As soon as you do that, _you come right back here!_"

_This is really a shame_…_But I suppose I shouldn't have thought _their _child would be normal_.

Josette nodded and dashed off to do her mother's bidding. She almost collapsed when she reached her grandfather at the edge of the fields, but just managed to gasp, "Solange…hit me…screaming…get her mama…" She stayed to catch her breath as Pierre, looking quite confused, dropped what he was doing and hurried off to the barn.

Hardly taking in his surroundings, Pierre stormed through the main doors and into the side room. To his shock and annoyance, it was empty. _Stupid fool,_ he thought, leaving the room, expecting to see him brushing down the horses or some such ridiculous activity. Then he saw the ladder, _not _where it was supposed to be.

"Erik!" he thundered. There was a rustling from above, and a few pieces of hay drifted down. He sighed and watched them fall before looking up again. Erik's head had appeared over the edge. Even from here, his eyes looked brighter.

"You could wake the dead, old man."

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Grunting, he hauled up the ladder and settled it back in place. "Where's your wife?"

"I don't think that's any of your business."

"It is when your daughter has apparently thrown some kind of temper tantrum in my house, and hit Josette. Apolline sent her tearing out to the fields to get me."

There was a feminine gasp from somewhere behind Erik, and Marguerite appeared, her dress coated in dust and straw sticking out of her hair at all angles.

"What happened?" she asked, hurrying down the ladder as quickly as she dared.

"I know as much as I just told you," Pierre said.

Suddenly, Marguerite stopped on the ladder, and began laughing again.

Erik looked at her suspiciously as he followed her down. "Do you mind telling me what you find so amusing?"

She finally managed to take a breath. "I was just thinking of earlier. Solange was asking where babies come from."

It wasn't until her feet were on solid ground that it hit her—she almost felt it physically. Her eyes widened, and her breath quickened, with horror this time. When Erik stepped down shortly after her, steadying himself against the ladder, she grasped his shirt. Her voice was hoarse with panic.

"Erik…the medicine…your gypsy potion…"

For a split second, he frowned in confusion, and then realized himself. "_Mon dieu_."

"Three weeks…" Her voice was faint.

"_Mon dieu_," Erik repeated, grabbing her shoulders. "I've just killed you." He had the sensation of ten different hands, all grasping daggers, slicing into him, his brain, his gut, his heart. How could he have been such a fool? Why hadn't he stopped to think? Oh, _damn_ his petty selfishness! _Damn, damn, damn_…He had just sentenced her to death.

Marguerite clenched her jaw, trying to collect herself. "I can't think about this right now. Something's wrong with Solange. You go back to lie down, and I'll see what's the matter." Not waiting for him to respond, she tore off through the barn and out the door, across the grass and into the house, all the while thinking _Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, selfish, horrible woman! What the hell kind of a mother do you think you are?_

"I don't know _what _happened!" Apolline said as soon as Marguerite nearly crashed through the door. "She must be absolutely _mad_." She turned away from her and muttered, "Maybe you should have a priest perform an exorcism on that child."

Loud, angry, girlish sobs came through the ceiling above them. Marguerite took a deep breath, secretly wishing that she wouldn't have to move so much after her encounter with Erik. She took the stairs slowly, and her heart jumped into her throat when she saw her daughter curled on her side and bawling into the floor.

"Solange!"

The little girl lifted her head. Her eyes were red, her cheeks streaked with dust and tears, her hair tangled, and her dress was wrinkled and dirty. She did indeed look like a juvenile inmate of an insane asylum. Marguerite was almost afraid to touch her until she sobbed again.

"Mama!" she gasped, crawling toward her.

Marguerite came up the rest of the stairs and picked her up, settling them both on the pallet. "Darling, what happened to upset you so?" Solange gulped in air and rubbed her eyes, reddening them further. Marguerite wished for a handkerchief to wipe the girl's nose.

"Josette was laughing at me. She said Papa was ugly, and the devil, and I hate her. So I hit her, and she started crying and ran away. I _hate _her!"

"Solange, you mustn't hit people! That was wrong, and you'll apologize to her as soon as—"

"She said Papa was ugly!"

Marguerite sighed and pulled her daughter into her lap, rocking back and forth as she patted between her shoulders. What was she supposed to say to this? _Dear God, she's too young to know how cruel the world can be, isn't she?_ "It's your papa, Solange," she whispered. "You've seen him. Do _you _think he's ugly?"

She sniffed and wiped her nose. "I dunno."

Marguerite sighed wearily. "Oh, _petit_. Is he mean to you?"

"No!"

She cleared her throat. "Do you think he's mean to Mama?"

Eyes wide, Solange shook her head vehemently.

"So he's not ugly inside."

The child looked as though she had not quite thought of it in this context before. "No," she said, drawing out the vowel.

"Do you think it matters, then, what he looks like?"

She watched Solange's expression slowly change as she chewed her bottom lip, wondering if she was asking too much of this child at her young age. She prayed her daughter would understand the lesson she was trying to teach. Had it made a difference that Erik allowed Solange to see his face often, beginning with her infancy?

"He should be nice outside, too," Solange finally said. "He is…when he wears the mask."

Her mother's shoulders sagged. "I know, sweetheart, but sometimes things just don't work that way. Sometimes you can see that people are very beautiful, but inside"—she cleared her throat again—"they're very, very ugly."

"Like Josette," Solange said.

"Well, Josette was not very nice to you just now. But maybe she's afraid." She smoothed Solange's disheveled hair. "People are often afraid of things they don't know. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

She nodded, and Marguerite hoped she was being truthful. She rose to her feet again and held out her hand. "Now, let's go down and see if you and Josette can make up."

Solange wrinkled her nose in disdain, but took her mother's hand anyway. Just as they were about to take the first step down from the attic, she said, "Mama?"

Marguerite stopped. "Yes?"

"Are _you _afraid of things?"

An iron fist embraced Marguerite's lungs. "Yes, _petit_. Sometimes."

"What kinds of things?"

She gently squeezed her daughter's hand. "When you're old enough, I'll tell you about them."

* * *

**A/N: Awww! Oh, I'm sorry…were you expecting to read more about Henri? …oops…**

**Well, I've upped the drama a bit more anyway!**


	22. The Patience of a Saint

**A/N: —cries in happiness at finally being able to update— I'm sorry it's taken me forever, but the Internet was out at school, and I have…THREE PAPERS! Fortunately, they're on subjects I'm enjoying. Not only that, but I'm reading _Pride and Prejudice _for the first time (and I call myself an Austen fan! But I _have_ seen the A&E miniseries…). It's marvelous! So if any passages in this chapter sound like Jane Austen, (I WISH!) that explains it.**

**I will be honest with you: I'm so bogged down with homework, that if you get even one more update before the semester ends, count yourselves lucky! (That is, if you still read/care about this story, which I doubt, because I feel I've let it slump, and for that, I sincerely apologize.) On the other hand, I think this sequel-story may end up being longer than my original. Any objections?**

Disclaimer: It's NOT_ **MINE!**_ —tears hair out, dons a cape, disappears into dorm basement—

* * *

It was a sober group that left the farm the next morning. Poor Pierre was utterly confused, not understanding why they seemed displeased to be going home. Only Solange was cheerful, and even she was still bitter toward Josette. Although the girls had apologized to each other the day before, the iciness between them appeared permanent. Apolline barely took the trouble to disguise her relief at their departure, and Gilles did not come in from the fields at all to see them off. 

Erik sat rigidly between his daughter and Pierre, staring straight ahead. Sensing something had upset her father, Solange said not a word as she leaned into her mother. Marguerite's arm came around her, but she, too, was deeply distracted. Pierre did not speak, by now well aware of what might happen if he crossed Erik. However, eventually he decided to take a risk, cleared his throat, and turned to the man.

"You'll need a horse, won't you?"

Erik jerked his chin toward the pair pulling the wagon. "How much do you want for one?" He smirked when Pierre named a modest price, and nothing more was said before they reached the house. When they did, Solange cried out in glee, bouncing in her seat, and Marguerite let out a breath she didn't even know she had been holding.

"One moment," Erik said to Pierre when the wagon pulled to a stop. He shook off any attempts to help him down, and quickly disappeared into the house.

"Solange, say 'goodbye' to M. Benoit," Marguerite said as the older man helped them climb from the wagon. "And 'thank you.'"

"_Au revoir, monsieur_. _Merci_." She turned around and noticed the cat emerging from around a corner of the house. "Beatrice!" she squealed, dashing toward her.

"I don't know how to thank you enough," Marguerite said to Pierre as he unhitched one of the horses. "You've done so much for us. When I think of what might have happened had you not been so close by…"

"It's over now," Pierre said gently, rearranging the horse that was still hitched to the wagon. "He's quite better, and you're all home. There's nothing more to trouble you." How untrue were the poor man's words! "I only wish my daughter and her husband had behaved more kindly."

"It doesn't matter," Marguerite said with a shake of her head. "You did quite enough."

"I hope so," Pierre said. His gaze drifted past Marguerite. "Ah, here he comes again."

She turned to watch Erik coming out of the house and striding purposefully toward them. He held a small bag, which he held out to Pierre. When the old man took it, it jingled.

"For the horse," Erik said. "And…your trouble." Though his face was stony, Marguerite smiled warmly at him.

Pierre weighed the heavy pouch in his hands. "Erik, this is far too much."

"_Take it_," he snapped. When Pierre did, Erik grasped the horse's bridle and began to stroke its neck.

"That one's Rousseau," Pierre said. He climbed back up into his wagon with a sigh. "Best of luck to you all. You're a hard man, Erik—heaven help your wife." He snapped the reigns over the remaining horse's back, and set off back toward his own home.

Erik gave Marguerite a dark look as the wagon disappeared down the road. "Yes, heaven help her _indeed_."

She cringed in the very pit of her stomach, looking at him pleadingly. But Erik just turned and led the horse down to the stables.

Marguerite took Solange's hand to go inside the house, and the child went straight to the piano. Marguerite wandered around the house, sighing wearily at how much dust and grime had built up in only three weeks of neglect. With a resigned shrug, she went to work at fixing it, desperate to occupy her mind as well as her hands. After three weeks of sleeping in a barn, she felt disgusting, even though she had taken an occasional bath on the farm.

At last she remembered her daughter once more. Solange had not stopped playing since they returned, and so Marguerite sat her down with a thimble, needle, thread, and spare bit of cloth to practice her stitches. The tiny hands that danced so effortlessly over the ivories fumbled with more practical devices. Marguerite somehow maintained her patience in correcting Solange, although the little girl frequently lost hers. Finally satisfied with her technique, Marguerite took to dusting the sitting room, so she could keep an eye on her. When Solange had managed a somewhat straight line, she let her go up to her room to play.

Even later, Erik found his wife on her hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor. Perspiration stood out on a bright red forehead, and her hair fell in tangles around her face. Her hands were already chapped from the morning's work. The floor was shining, but she didn't stop working, failing to notice him until he stood right in front of him. Finally she paused and looked up. Her eyes were disturbingly vacant.

"Rest yourself for now," he said.

"No." She shook her head. "The house has been empty for almost a month. I have to—"

"_Stop!_"

Clenching her eyes shut, Marguerite sat back on her heels. "I can't rest, or I'll start thinking." She swept some of the sweat from her brow, pressing the backs of her hands against her head. "I can't bear to think right now."

Erik stood in silence. Had Marguerite been looking at him, she would have seen him trembling slightly. Finally he took a breath and said, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have…" He shuddered. "I shouldn't have asked it of you." He snorted. "I mean, I shouldn't have _forced_ you."

She was staring into the water bucket. "You've never had to force yourself upon me, Erik."

"Well, you needn't worry any more," he said, showing her the small bottle he had been holding. "This will set everything to rights."

She glared up at him. "More of your potions! You think this will make everything better, do you?"

His eyes narrowed. "Yes, as a matter of fact." She refused to move, and he sighed in annoyance. His voice took on a much less gentle tone. "Marguerite, you know what is at stake." There was a lengthy pause, and he lost his tolerance. "_Your life_," he answered for her. He could hardly believe he was defending someone of that profession, but he still began, "The doctor said—"

"I know what the doctor said!" she hissed, like an animal caught in a trap. "Do you realize what would have happened had I taken your wretched concoction years ago?" She pointed to the ceiling, above which was Solange's bedroom. "_She _would not be here."

Erik closed his eyes, trying to think of a way to reason with her. "We cannot take that chance this time. You could die."

"I could have _died _before."

"But now we know you're at a greater risk than is normal."

Grimacing, she bowed her head. "Erik, please," she whispered, "don't do this to me."

He knelt beside her, still clutching the bottle. "I know there's no way of knowing if you're with child yet or not, but this will guarantee your safety. You'll never have to know for sure. Just swallow, and forget it."

She shook her head again.

"Why do you balk now? You had no trouble taking the _other_ tonic."

"If a life has already begun, it's not for me to take."

He reached out and cupped her chin. "Marguerite, do you realize what you're saying? You had enough trouble bringing Solange into the world. If you've conceived again, you're risking your life. Dr. Busque said you shouldn't have more children. What if you die giving birth to this one…if there is one?" He set the vial down and brought his other hand up to gently touch her grimy, tousled hair. "I cannot lose you."

Her eyelids drooped and then closed. "I…" She swallowed. "Let me think on it."

* * *

Several days later, Marguerite had not yet reached a decision. Not only that, but she received a letter that, though it contained no related information, was disheartening. A few of the words were smeared, with stains that appeared to have been the fault of tears. 

_Dearest Marguerite,_

_Oh, I can't tell you how difficult this is to write, but I suppose you really ought to know. I have gotten your letters, and please let me apologize for not responding to them until now. I simply could not bear it. I have hardly seen anyone, or written a word, since I returned to England. Yes, I'm sure you noticed where this letter came from. I have returned to my homeland—I could not face Paris after the heartache I endured. But I am getting ahead of myself. My darling Rupert, my love, my husband of not even three years, died in a railroad accident. Oh, it grieves me so to see the words on paper! Please do not ask for details, Marguerite._

_Even so, I hope all is well with your family. From your last letter, it sounded so. That is good news indeed. As for a convent school in France, you are very fortunate on that account. The only other friend from Paris I am currently corresponding with had a sister who was schooled in one such place. It was at the _Couvent de Saint Catherine_, which is southeast of Paris, but I don't know how far from your home. In a way, I fled the country, you see. Once the production of that Wagner opera closed, I left. My last performance was disgraceful, I'm sure, for there was no possible way my heart was in it. So I am living with my sister and her husband and children. I'm afraid I am a poor houseguest, and shall have to part from them once again. They are so patient, but I know they will tire of me soon enough._

_Perhaps I ought to go back to Paris and start over, but I detest the very thought, at least at this moment. Time heals all wounds, does it not? Hopefully it will be true for me. I do regret sending you all these morose words, but they are all I have for the present time, and I did not want to go another day without writing to you. I do want to hear all about your little girl and what she has accomplished. Has she spoken yet?Please write back. As I hate to see people just yet—all they can give me are useless words of condolences and unfelt pity—letters are all I have. I look forward to yours._

_With Love, Your Friend,_

_Katie_

"The poor girl," Marguerite murmured, setting down the letter. _Why must tragedies all happen at once?_

With a shiver, her mind came back to her own situation. What was she to do? Her life was very much at stake this time. If she had been terrified of dying when Solange was born, what of now, if she indeed had conceived? She might be very quick to put all the blame on Erik, but knew she could not do such a thing. She, too, had been an utter fool.

She sat at the kitchen table, one palm supporting her chin, her other hand toying with a corner of the paper. Before long, the piano's tinkling sounds drifted to her ears; then she heard a female voice, weak and reedy, singing scales.

Marguerite stood and moved across the hall to the sitting room. Erik was, sure enough, seated at the piano, mask firmly in place. Solange stood beside the instrument, her mouth open slightly. Inwardly, her mother cringed at the sound, her heart sinking. Of course, the child was three. What else was she to expect but an inexperienced voice? Perhaps with time, Erik could guide her to sing with extraordinary beauty. Still, Marguerite had rather hoped…

She sat and listened to them for a while, smiling to herself when Erik gave Solange firm, deliberate instructions, words Marguerite had heard all too often directed at herself—chin up, shoulders back but not tense, feet apart just right. Still, the sound did not improve, and after about twenty minutes, Marguerite felt she had to interrupt the scene.

"That's very good, _petit_," she said to her daughter. "Why don't you go play now? Beatrice is in the kitchen."

Solange eagerly ran off to pet the cat, but when Marguerite turned back to Erik, he was looking at her crossly.

"You can't just interrupt a music lesson."

Marguerite shrugged. "There will be time. Besides, I need to talk to you."

"Is it so important it could not wait?"

She frowned at his tone. "Really, Erik, how much do you expect her to advance in half an hour? She's still a tiny child." She chuckled. "Actually, she doesn't sound pleasant at all. Granted, it would be _nice_ if she showed your vocal talent this early, but it's not necessary. She has so much promise otherwise."

She jumped and gasped when he slammed his fist down on the piano keys. For the first time in a long time, he glared at her with unholy fury.

"She will be great," he said slowly. "I will _make _her great." He stood and moved to the window, the terrifying, dissonant notes still ringing in Marguerite's ears. She felt the long-dormant sensation of fear beginning to make itself known within her. The back of her neck prickled with the room's tense atmosphere, almost like an electrical charge. Though she wanted to forget she had spoken and leave the room, she could not move.

For several moments, there was complete silence. Then, fully composed, Erik turned and faced her. "Now, what did you wish to speak with me about?"

She felt as though she had just been granted an audience with Pharaoh, but reminded herself it was her _husband_. She shook her head.

"It was…It can wait. You don't seem particularly inclined toward conversation right now, so we can talk about it some other time."

His eyes darkened ominously. "It seems rather important to you," he said coldly. "So come, my dear, say what you wish."

She pulled Katie's letter out of her pocket and looked down at it. "Katie has a friend from the _corps du ballet_ whose sister attended a convent school. _Couvent de Saint Catherine_…Perhaps it will do for Solange, when she's old enough."

Indignation and hurt briefly passed through Erik's face. "You still mean to send her away?"

"I thought we'd agreed it was the most beneficial thing for her," Marguerite said. "I know you were attacked when you went out looking for a place, but…I don't think that should change our decision, should it? You did say—"

He waved his hand imperiously. "Yes, I know what we spoke of. But now that she's talking and singing, I wish to train her myself."

"I'm sure you do," Marguerite said with a jaded sigh, "but in the company of other girls—"

"She will become as indolent and silly as those in the _corps du ballet_."

"In an environment of order and religious stability—"

"Her creative outlets will be barricaded, and she will wither!"

Marguerite finally laughed, without humor, almost hysterically, for several moments strung together. When Erik seemed very perplexed and annoyed, she stopped, still quaking slightly.

Holding up her hands in a demonstration of surrender, she said, "All right, Erik. I have had _quite enough _of arguing. Train Solange up in the way she will go. Be as harsh and demanding as you like. Seclude her from all of humanity, if you deem it necessary. Perhaps she will crack under the strain, and take up residence in your old quarters at the _Opera Populaire!_"

She did not wait to see his reaction. She turned and quickly strode through the house back to the kitchen, where Solange was serenely playing with Beatrice. Her little hands were tremulous, though, and Marguerite wondered if she had heard any outburst.

"Darling," she said to Solange, reaching out to hold her close. But in a moment, Erik's undeniable presence could be felt.

"Solange," her father's voice came from the doorway, behind Marguerite, "it is time for lessons again. Please go to the piano until I come back."

"Yes, Papa," she whispered, detaching herself from her mother and hurrying out of the room. Marguerite stared out the window, not looking at Erik. When he spoke again, his voice was very close; she felt his breath on her hair.

"This contention will not do."

"I'm glad we finally agree on _something_," she snapped.

He reached out and grasped her shoulders, spinning her around to face him. "Do you for a moment doubt that I have her best interests in mind?"

She looked into his eyes for a moment before shaking her head. "But," she added, "you're going back on what you and I had agreed to do. I don't want to argue about something I thought we'd settled months ago."

He folded his arms and smirked. "Have you come to _your _decision?"

She frowned. "You already know what I think of this." His eyes swept over her, settling on her stomach. She felt herself blushing.

"I wasn't speaking of Solange."

She placed her hands over her abdomen. "I don't know yet," she whispered. "I…I need more time before I decide."

He gave her the slightest bow. "As do I." When her shoulders sagged, he raised an eyebrow—the one she could see, anyway. "Do you not think that's fair?"

"No," she said grudgingly. "I suppose it's _very _fair."

* * *

"Oh, hang it all! I thought when you married Celine, you would have stopped all that." 

"I want to be avenged!"

"Good lord…you have to trust me when I say, that's an _absurd_ idea. What did he take from you? Not your life, certainly, and nothing of value to you, except a woman who didn't want you anyway. What is there for you to regain?"

"He made an _attempt _on my life," Henri sniffed. "I cannot let it pass. He ruined my dignity, and I lost the chance to be with Marguerite. And if you've forgotten, Marcel's death remains unexplained. Well, I'm sure _he _could explain it."

"They ruled it an accident," Raoul said sullenly.

"We've had peace for years," Christine sharply cut into the conversation. "Can we not have the rest of our lives? And what about _him? _If you try to attempt revenge, M Laroche, you will find yourself in the hereafter before you could blink an eye."

"Darling," Raoul said, standing up, "please—"

"If you please, Mme de Chagny," Henri said, also getting to his feet. "Now that I have a definite connection to his whereabouts, I cannot let this opportunity go untaken." He looked back at Raoul. "You must understand. I say again, you, more than anyone else, should be able to understand how I feel right now!"

Speechless, Raoul looked between Henri and Christine. They really should have left the country when he and Christine first married. He _knew_, in some way or another, Erik would come back to haunt him. He just never imagined it would be through the idiocy of his younger friend. True, as a child of wealth, Henri was used to getting everything he wanted—certainly Raoul had thought such things about himself before! Losing a young woman to a man who seemed so much less _qualified _must have been quite a blow to his ego. Not to mention, they had disappeared quite under his nose, after Erik had threatened Henri's life. No wonder he still wanted to find him.

Still…He really could have gone about it without notifying Raoul of every little step he intended to take. And in front of Christine! Could the man be any less prudent?

"I can make no decisions for you," Raoul finally said. "Nor can I convince you to change your mind, now that you've become so very determined." He stepped away from both of them. "I wash my hands of this entire ordeal, Henri. Do you understand? Whatever you choose to do, or _not _do, I wish to hear _nothing more _of it!"

"Raoul—" Christine cut in again.

"_Please_," he said, consternation heavy in his voice, and that one desperate word. He turned back to Henri. "If you have nothing to say that is unrelated to this repulsive topic…I suggest you take your leave now, _monsieur_."

Henri was desperate for some kind of support. "Raoul, I thought we were friends."

"We are. But I want no part of this anymore. I do not want to hear Erik's name again for the rest of my life! Go home to your wife. Leave—" He glanced at Christine, and sighed. "Leave him alone. Leave _both_ of them alone."

When he met the strange woman in the Phantom's lair, Henri had been sufficiently stunned to try and forget what had happened. He quelled his indignation at Marguerite's lack of appreciation for attempting to rescue her—for the opportunity to save her reputation and clear her name of murder—for offering her a life of comfort with a man who would be gentle and _never_ need a mask. Hell, he saved her hide when those idiotic companions of his had accosted her! After all he had done, giving up seemed the only thing left. Henri lacked Marcel's violence and had only half his pride and nerve, unless he was forced. Erik had certainly provoked him, but it had come to naught. Therefore, he had finally taken Raoul's advice—and that of the old woman who had appeared so suddenly in Erik's lair—and left Marguerite and Erik to their own lives, at least for Marguerite's sake.

For several years Henri had lived in lavish comfort and relative peace of mind. He was fully aware his wife, admittedly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, wanted nothing but fortune from him. From her, he obtained physical release and a traveling companion, and—eventually, he hoped—an heir. The new Mme Laroche was completely ignorant of the woman he had once courted. For a while, it seemed as thought it would remain that way.

However, meeting the Persian, someone who had known Erik, was wholly unanticipated. Nadir Khan's connection with the _Opera Populaire _brought back memories of the girl Henri used to know. She had been a woman of spirit, an easy smile, and a mysterious air—as though she held a great, captivating secret. Occasional moments at a ball or a feast had been enough to convince him she returned his attraction. It was almost too much, this reminder of what he had _almost _possessed, and of the monster that had taken it from him. The wound had been deep, and the distortion of time had made him believe himself more severely injured than was accurate.

"Forgive me, Raoul," Henri said, picking up his hat as he moved toward the parlor door. "I've intruded upon your hospitality long enough."

* * *

Erik spoke to Solange in a different language for each day of the week—Italian, Russian, English, Latin, Romany, French, and even Nadir's Persian dialect. Marguerite hated to discourage it, but it made her head spin. She only knew French and a little Italian. It bothered her to lag so far behind her daughter. She tried to teach her sketching, painting, and needlework, but the little girl hated sitting still that long. It was only in singing, or with the piano and eventually the violin, that she demonstrated any patience at all. Unfortunately, though Erik was insistent on continuing the singing lessons, Solange's voice still fell short of what either parent might have expected, given her paternity. 

One morning, Marguerite was washing dishes when she felt a tug on her skirt.

"Mama?" Somehow her accent sounded different.

"Yes, darling?"

"_Ya khachoo yest_."

Marguerite stared, mouth slightly ajar. When Solange pouted and repeated herself, Marguerite finally found her voice. "I don't understand you, _ma chère_."

"_Ya khachoo yest!_" She pulled harder on her mother's skirt. Impatient, Marguerite reached down and pried the tiny, strong fingers from the cloth.

"Stop playing! Tell me what you want." The only response she received this time was the stamping of two little feet upon the floor. Finally she stormed into the sitting room, where Erik was examining a sheet of music. "Would you mind explaining what she's trying to say?"

Erik looked questioningly at Solange, who rattled off a string of words, completely incomprehensible to her mother. He only laughed and responded in kind. He stroked her hair before turning back to Marguerite. "She's hungry."

She felt as though her breath had been manually yanked from her lungs. "What language is that?"

"Russian, of course."

As if she should have _known_ that! Marguerite frowned at Solange. "You have to speak _French_ to Mama. _Comprenez-vous?_"

Solange's lower lip jutted out further. "_Oui_," she said grudgingly.

Marguerite's throat tightened at the reproachful look in her eyes. She could barely speak to her own daughter! Silently she went back into the kitchen and sliced off a piece of bread, drizzling a little honey over it. Solange took it with a quiet "_Merci_." As she sat at the table and ate, Marguerite returned to Erik's side. She looked down at him sorrowfully. He still sat at the piano bench, looking as though there was absolutely nothing wrong in the world.

"It's been weeks since she started speaking, but now I can barely communicate with my own daughter, Erik. What have you been teaching her?"

"You haven't noticed? Everything I know."

She ran a shaking hand through her hair. "She ought to speak French more than the others."

"Why?"

"Because _I_ can't speak anything else! It's become a barrier between us."

He smirked. "Maybe _you're _the one who ought to learn."

She wrapped her arms around herself and looked away from him. "It makes me feel foolish. I can't learn that quickly."

"We'll have to see. I'll teach you the same things I taught her."

"It's all very well and good if she's a genius and has been hearing those languages from birth. _I _haven't had such privileges!"

Silently he stared at her with that infuriating control, a calm she was not feeling. In her mind, she asked herself why it should trouble her so. _Her _father was no genius, but whose fault was it? No one's, really. Things just happened as they did. Still she said nothing, feeling Erik's gaze boring into the back of her neck. Finally, Marguerite went back into the kitchen.

The sight of Solange was at least enough to make her laugh. Even that small amount of honey had gotten smeared all over her hands and face, and dripped onto her dress. It was almost a relief to be reminded she was still, after all, a little child.

But not forever.

* * *

**A/N: PLEASE REVIEW! Pretty please? I need something to pull me through these agonizing last few weeks of the semester!**


	23. Where is it now, the glory and the dream

**A/N: Oh, my. Lots of things are going on, but I have at last managed to update! When I sat down to FINALLY work on this again, I really had no idea I would be updating tonight! Thanks to everyone for their support. My life is getting weirder and more difficult by the minute, and I might just pull an Erik and disappear into the depths of a theater somewhere. **

**I have a request: I know it's a pain, but I want to encourage everyone to sign in to review whenever you can. I will still accept anonymous reviews, but if you don't sign in, I can't reply to yours (because of the new rules---see the homepage if you don't know what I'm talking about). And I just might need to!**

Disclaimer: Cigarette smoke contains carbon monoxide

* * *

"There's M and Mme Lambert," Celine said. "Do you see? With Lady d'Orleans and her latest companion." She frowned at her husband. "You're not looking." When there was no response, she pulled at his arm. "You aren't _listening_, either!" 

"What is it?" Henri asked, at last looking at her.

"I see M and Mme Lambert," she repeated, trying to point as discreetly as she could. She gasped, feeling a lock of her hair slip from its arrangement. Reaching up, she managed to tuck it back into place. It would not do to have her black curls—almost blue in the light of the opera house—come tumbling down over her shoulders during the performance, and with her party seated in such a prominent place!

"Where?" Henri's interest had been piqued. Finally he saw them, but the Persian and Michel's sister were nowhere in sight, and so he quickly lost his attention. This did not escape Celine's notice, but she remained silent as the opera's second act began. She was watching Henri, however, rather than the performers; he was restless and very obviously preoccupied.

"Honestly, Henri, you've been so distracted lately," she whispered harshly.

He was not even looking at her when he asked, "Have I?"

"Why do you come here if it's such a bore to you?"

"I'm a business partner here, remember? Besides, I know you enjoy it, and of course you need an escort."

She snorted ever so softly at this remark. "You know full well there are a thousand men in Paris who would cut off an arm just to have me on the other."

Henri turned to her then, but his mouth was slightly open, and he seemed to lack any words at all. His eyebrows came together as he frowned deeply, but still he made no reply. Rather, it was one of the others in their box, Isabelle Gautier, who spoke.

"My dear," she murmured, leaning forward to gently address Celine, "I'm sure we would be most obliged if you would reserve your conversation for a later hour."

Celine tossed her a shallow smile, and Isabelle sat back, apparently satisfied. But after a moment, the younger woman sat closer to her husband, whispering directly into his ear.

"You haven't been the same since we had dinner with M and Mme Lambert, and his mad sister. It does make a lady wonder, you know." She smiled when she noticed a flush forming on his cheeks. The light was dim, but she could see it anyway. The spark in his eyes, however, made her slightly uneasy.

"Do you cast doubt upon my character, _madame_?" he asked.

"I said no such thing."

"Not explicitly, to be sure." His eyebrows lifted. "Let's have it."

"I know you have business with that Persian, and some other man. Who is he, Henri? Do you owe him money? I swear to you, if there is a single—"

"_Do _calm yourself," he said, finally incensed. "You have nothing to worry about with regard to your pocket-book. Or rather, to _mine_. Not one of your diamonds or pearls will be sacrificed for any debt." He held back a sneer when he could actually see her relax.

"Then tell me who he is."

"It's no concern of yours. It involves an event which occurred before I married you."

"Does it have to do with a woman?"

He chuckled softly. "Ah, so we have reached the true purpose of this interrogation."

It was Francois Gautier's turn to address the couple. "Henri, what is wrong? For heaven's sake, it's opening night! We're supposed to be appraising Demyan Sabashnikov's first performance as lead baritone, and here we have a lover's quarrel in the audience instead!"

"My apologies," Henri said, standing up. "If you will excuse me, I think I would like to have some fresh air." He turned to Celine. "I would be very grateful if you'd accompany me."

There was an inexplicable expression of defiance on her face, but Celine stood and followed her husband into the dim corridor, through the atrium, and out onto the steps leading down from the main doors. The Parisian breeze smelled heavily of rain hesitant to fall. For a stretch of time, the couple was edgily silent.

"Will you tell me now?" she finally asked.

Henri stared at her for a while, weighing all possible answers, until she felt uncomfortable beneath the gaze. "I have to find that Persian again."

"So I surmised. Yet you've never told me what for."

"There's another man, and the Persian can lead me to him." As he spoke, Henri turned his head away from her, watching carriages rattle by and people scurrying along their routes.

"Why? What has he done? Does he owe _you _money?"

Henri smiled slightly, sadly, still not looking at her. "He owes me _something_, I believe."

"And what is _that_ supposed to mean?" She narrowed her eyes.

"Oh, you ought not to worry about it. I don't think you'd quite understand."

She put her hands on her hips. "I'm not a fool, Henri Laroche! I do possess some brains behind this pretty face, not that it matters to you. Why can't you tell me anything?"

He waved a hand absently. "I'll tell you more about it once I've found her."

"_Her?_"

Henri fought for any control over himself he could maintain. However, instead of appearing nonchalant, his features became merely awkwardly frozen. "Did I say 'her'? My mistake." He unwisely cleared his throat. "Of course I meant 'him.'"

Celine looked as though she could have spat in his face. "Another woman," she whispered venomously. "How _dare_ you!"

"Oh, hush," Henri said. "Perhaps you're not a fool, but you're doing a damn good imitation of one. Nothing in your life is in danger, does that satisfy you? Not your beloved house, your clothes, your standing, or any of those things you cherish."

He was on the verge of admitting his complete fidelity to her in the entire time they had been married, but resisted. It was almost humiliating for a man of his class to have been with no other woman but his wife. It was not a lack of opportunity—he had enough money to tempt Celine, after all—but other women's utter lack of appeal for him. If he wanted a gorgeous woman, he could have Celine whenever he wanted. If he wanted someone who actually interested him…well, she was nowhere within reach.

"Now," he said, "if you've nothing left to ask me, I think we should return to the opera." With that, he tucked his hand beneath her elbow and led the way back to Box Five.

* * *

Marguerite hardly expected to see Pierre again, though she realized she should not have been surprised. He and Sébastien had set up a booth in town when she spotted them on market day. Taking Solange firmly by the hand, she made her way through the crowd toward them. She did not even try to wonder where Erik had gone. Marguerite and Solange had climbed down from the wagon, and he promptly disappeared. There were too many people around. 

"_Bonjour_," she greeted the old man. He smiled at her brightly, but when he glanced at Solange, she abruptly stepped behind her mother's skirts.

"Still a bit shy, I see," Pierre said.

"Sometimes." Marguerite glanced down at Solange with a sigh. "How is Apolline?"

"Had a baby boy a few weeks ago," he answered proudly. "Having a hard time of it, of course. Gilles is hardly getting any work done, with looking in on her every ten minutes. Poor Josette is under too much strain for one her age, but she helps all she can." Pierre took a step closer and dropped his tone a bit. "Actually, _madame_, I'm glad to see you. I was wondering if I might entreat you to come visit her soon. I think she needs to see another woman around, if only for a few hours."

_But she hates me_, Marguerite thought, without giving voice to it. It was no matter, for Pierre seemed to have read her thoughts anyway.

"I know she was not quite welcoming when you and Erik stayed with us," he admitted. "But if you were to come…alone…" He shrugged his shoulders, looking quite resigned. "My apologies. I should not have asked you."

"I understand," she said. She paused to think, as Solange gradually overcame her shyness to look at the farm produce with some interest. Marguerite's decision came quickly. However small, this was a little opportunity to get away. That she _wanted _to get away from her home was a bit disturbing, but she might as well admit it. Solange would be delighted to have her father all to herself, and Marguerite was quite sure Erik would feel likewise.

Over the past few weeks, tension between them had not subsided. Marguerite refused to swallow a drop of his medicine. It had become less a battle of wits and more a rehearsed scene, oft-repeated, but almost entirely without meaning. Both of the actors involved kept it up anyway. As was his wont, Erik used anger and exasperation to disguise his fear for his wife's health. If Solange sensed the antagonism between them, she made no sign.

By now, Marguerite was certain she was pregnant again. She had not bled, and the telltale queasiness was there—not just in the morning, but around the clock. At least it was not on the grand scale she had suffered before. She had not told Erik; she wasn't sure how. Perhaps it was suicide to keep the baby, but the idea of forcefully disposing of it held even more horror.

"I would be only too happy to help," she said firmly. "I'll spend the day, if you like. Shall I come, says, in two days?"

"Oh, would you?" The relief in his voice was almost pitiful.

"You have my word."

"_Merci_," Pierre said, an enormous smile breaking across his face. "You are a saint, _madame_."

"Far from it," she said, smiling back. "Now then, after all that, oughtn't you sell me some of your vegetables?"

"Of course." He made a sweeping gesture at the fine results of that spring's garden. As Marguerite looked over the selection, Pierre explained to Solange how their vegetables grew, and what to look for when buying them. Her mother listened with amusement until it was time to go. After a few more purchases, they wandered to the edge of town, on the lookout for Erik.

It did not take long for him to appear; he seemed to have been watching for them, as well. At the sight of him, Marguerite suddenly felt timid about telling him her plans. They flew out of her mind when she found a distraction—there was another horse hitched to the cart. Solange squealed in delight at the new animal, and insisted on being lifted upon its back. Erik did not hesitate to oblige her, contrary to Marguerite's assumption he would want to leave town as soon as possible. After a moment, he assisted Marguerite in placing her purchases into the cart, and silently helped her climb in herself.

"What inspired this purchase?" she asked him softly when they finally headed home.

"It seemed practical," he said. "Solange will be needing to learn how to ride before we know it." He glanced at her sideways, and she thought she saw a faint smile upon his lips. "Do you not approve?"

"No," she said, swallowing. "I do. It's…very convenient, actually."

"Perhaps you can teach her how to sit like a lady."

Marguerite felt a warmth in her heart, realizing—hoping—he was reaching out to her, after his coolness of the past few weeks. Smiling herself, she settled Solange upon her lap before leaning into Erik's side. "Perhaps," she whispered.

There were no more words spoken between the two of them for the rest of the drive, though Solange babbled about everything she saw in town. It was as though she had never been mute. Marguerite had stopped wondering what had made her begin vocalizing; she resigned herself to the idea that she might never know. Erik answered her incessant questions, but Marguerite could tell his mind wasn't completely concentrated on it.

After reaching the house and putting the horses in their stables, Erik took Solange up to her room as Marguerite bustled around the kitchen. Before long, she heard his voice drifting down, carrying the tune of a gypsy lullaby she had heard before. She sighed, feeling as though her heart was shriveling up within her. Something was terribly, unmistakably wrong, and she didn't know what to do about it. It had never occurred to her that her husband's love would settle exclusively on their child. She had never expected to resent him for it, either. And yet, she felt a distinct remorse for leaving—for _wanting_ to leave. She loved them both with all her heart, but…

_A day_, she told herself as she wiped the table and wondered what to make for the next meal. _Just a day, and then you'll be back_._ You'll both have a new outlook, and everything will be better_._ Stop being such a child about it!_

Who was she trying to fool? In a few days, she would still be pregnant, Erik would still begrudge it, and Solange would probably not even notice her mother's absence. It wasn't going to fix a thing. It wasn't going to take away the stress and umbrage hovering between them. It wasn't going to change the fact that Marguerite ached for him and wished to be close to him as she had been before. Instead, she felt the way she did when he had taken her in after Marcel's attack—eaten away with love, while he avoided her whenever possible, not caring, not wanting to return the affection. Within her gloomy thoughts, she did not even realize she had stopped her activity to simply listen to Erik's voice. She would miss him. She would miss them both, indeed. But they would certainly get along without her.

Finally she shook her head and managed to smile at herself. She behaved as though she were preparing to board a train to Moscow! Then, she froze. The music stopped; Erik's footsteps could be heard on the stairway. Marguerite tried to make herself look busy, but her pulse began racing. She could not even understand why.

"She's napping," Erik said from the doorway.

Marguerite nodded. "Good, good," she murmured. "She was irritable when I woke her this morning, so I thought perhaps she needed…" Her voice trailed off when Erik's hand covered her own. She looked up at him, searching, but though his eyes were soft, they told her nothing.

"Come," he whispered. He led her through the backdoor and toward her favorite hill. When they reached the top of it, to her surprise he sat down in the grass, giving her a gentle tug until she followed suit. When she did, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him.

She wanted to cry with relief, then wondered at his motivation for such sweet, unexpected actions. What a horrible thing! For ten minutes, could she bear to _not _be suspicious?

"I love you," he said. He buried his face in her dark hair and planted a kiss against her scalp. For a moment, she could do nothing but stare into space, her thoughts flying all over. Finally, he asked, "Marguerite…do you hear me?"

"Yes." Her voice was the barest whisper. "I hear you, Erik. I love you, too."

"I could never bear to lose you," he said.

She closed her eyes, realizing what he meant. It was the same thing all over again. "As I would hate to lose you," she said, realizing with some shame that her responses sounded perfunctory. "Don't worry, it won't happen. It just can't."

"We're not discussing _me_," he said. "I would give my life for you. You would be able to go on, live another life, be happy."

_We _are _talking about you_. _It's always you_.

"I couldn't do that if I lost you."

"You would," she said. "You'd have to, for your little girl."

"Are you not afraid of death?"

She sighed. "I don't _want _to die, if that's what you mean." She twisted around as best she could to look at him. "Erik, please don't let's go through this again. I'm weary of it. I wish you would be at peace, as I am. I will not change my mind."

Erik's mouth twisted into a grimace. "I couldn't live with what I've done to you."

When his eyes clenched shut, she held his head against her chest and made "hush" sounds. "You've done nothing to me. Perhaps it's just the will of God that—"

"God!" Erik snarled, his head snapping up. "Don't speak to me about _God!_ As far as I can see, the _will of God_ is to take from me everything I hold dear on this earth, so long as I'm alive! It's His twisted, perverted pleasure to see me in pain."

"Don't say that," Marguerite said, her eyes beginning to mist over. "Please, Erik, don't say that. I'm here, aren't I? Solange is there, and…" She looked at him earnestly. "Consider what you've been through—and you're still alive and well! Doesn't that mean anything? Doesn't that at all convince you He _cares?_"

He glared at her for a moment before finally saying, "I've been lucky a few times."

She frowned. "I'd say that Pierre seeing you were alive, and taking care of you, was _more _than luck." Realizing she should just be grateful he had calmed down, she nervously chewed the inside of her cheek. "I saw him in town today."

"Lovely," Erik said. He was not looking at her anymore; he was pretending to be engrossed in the landscape, it seemed. "How is the old man?"

"He's doing well, but his daughter is overwrought. She had her baby some weeks ago, and fares not too well." She pointedly ignored Erik's I-told-you-so look and continued. "When he asked if I would come to look after her for a little while, I agreed."

Erik seemed positively disgusted. "Why should you care for these people? Their daughter was wicked to Solange, and they treated us with absolute contempt."

"Pierre was kind."

"Yes, but _he _didn't have a baby."

Marguerite did not even try to resist rolling her eyes skyward. "You didn't meet Apolline. She was quite civil after a while. I know how difficult it is to have _one _child, and she's had three now. I don't care how unpleasant she might have been, she needs help—at least for the children's sake. Besides, I promised Pierre I would do this."

Erik sneered. "Promises. Yes, you're always promising, aren't you? If you hadn't _promised _to make supper for them that day, quite possibly we could have gone home sooner…and thus been distracted from certain _temptations_."

Marguerite gaped at him. "Are you blaming _me_ now?"

"It is rather amazing, isn't it, how one thing leads to another." He cleared his throat. "No, I'm sorry. It's _the will of God_, I'm sure."

"What _I _find amazing," she said, infuriated, "is that you don't even know for sure if I'm with child!"

"Oh, I know," he said softly. "Perhaps you did not tell me overtly, but my dear, I know the signs now." He glanced over her. "Pain…fatigue…nausea. Only once before did they all occur together. And you show no signs of any other disease."

She was dizzy when she scrambled to her feet. She felt a dam about to burst, but could not seem to keep herself from opening her mouth.

"Well, it doesn't matter. I've made up my mind, and I don't care what you say. I'm leaving the day after tomorrow to see Apolline. I daresay you and Solange will have a pleasant time here by yourselves without her incompetent, ignorant mother to cast a shadow over things!"

Erik looked as though she had just slapped him in the face. She had to hurry back down the hill and into the house before she did that, too. She stormed up the stairs, about to go into the bedroom when she heard a soft voice, "Mama?"

So she entered Solange's room instead. "Yes, darling?"

"I was having a bad dream."

"It's all right, Solange," Marguerite said, moving to kneel beside the bed Erik had made. "Mama's here, and Papa's outside. Nothing's going to hurt you."

"I know," her daughter whispered. "But I dreamed I was in a carriage…and the horse ran away…and I cried and cried, but you and Papa stood there, watching me go, and couldn't hear me. I was scared. I didn't know how to go back."

"Oh, _petit_." Marguerite kissed her soft cheek. "It was just a dream, and it could never happen. You know Mama and Papa would never let that happen."

"Yes, Mama."

She took a deep breath. "Solange, do you remember Mme Garceau, and how she had a baby inside her?"

Solange sat up, looking interested. "Will you tell me how the baby got there now?"

She smiled. "Not yet, darling. But the baby came a little while ago—"

"And you're going to see her."

Marguerite had forgotten that "precocious" was too mild a word to describe her daughter. "That's right. I thought you would be playing with Sébastien when I spoke to Pierre."

Solange shook her head. "He went to play with another boy."

"I see. Well, yes, I _am _going to see her in a few days, just for a day. Papa will be here, though, so you'll be all right."

"Will I have to sing all day?"

Her heart sank at the innocent question. "No, I don't think Papa will make you sing all day."

"I like to sing, but I'm not good at it."

"Solange, did he tell you that?" Marguerite could not imagine Erik would tell their daughter such a thing, not when he was trying to build her up and make her a great musician in all areas. True, Solange was no vocal prodigy, but there had been definite improvement over the past few weeks. Even Marguerite had realized that, with her limited knowledge.

"No," Solange answered. "I just know. It doesn't sound pretty, like the piano. Playing the piano is easy—not like singing. Papa's not happy with my voice."

"Well," Marguerite could not help saying, "your papa should be glad you play the piano so beautifully. Don't worry about it, darling."

"Will you ask Papa not to make me sing all day when you leave? I don't mind if we sing a little, but I don't like to sing all day. I want to play, and see the horses."

Marguerite smiled again, hoping Solange would not be so cunning as to notice her reappearing tears. "Yes, I'll ask him."

* * *

**A/N: So, what do you think? Is there hope for them? Will Marguerite actually change her mind? Will Henri go out to search for them? Stay tuned next time, for the further adventures of...oh, forget it, hehe! Just review the darn thing.**


	24. Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine

**A/N: Ta daa Christmas break has not yet begun, but writing this is such stress relief, it helps during finals. (To bad I didn't have time for stress relief earlier!) Ergo, here is another chapter for you all, whom I dearly love for sticking with me through this twisting, overlong, not-even-close-to-finished-you-have-no-idea story. There is a special place in my heart for each one of you! If I make it as a novelist, I will never forget the encouragement I received from you all for my first real story. Well, I won't forget it anyway.**

**Why so sappy, you may ask? Well, finals make me over-emotional. I'm preparing to say goodbye to dear friends, most of whom I will not see for a month—even longer for some others. So I'm in a sentimental mood. Plus…it's the Christmas season.**

**Note: Most of my latest chapter titles have been coming from lines of poetry that stood out in particular. If you're interested in reading the whole poems, I'm sure if you Google the whole line you'll find them. Anyway, this chapter's title is from "Ode on Melancholy" by John Keats.**

Disclaimer: Children under 13 must be accompanied by an adult.

* * *

One solid day passed without a word directly spoken between the two of them. Then, the night before she was to leave for the Garceau farm, Marguerite awoke to the prodding of a little hand on her shoulder. Her eyes fluttered open, but in the darkness, she could not see anything. She felt another human presence very close to her face. 

"Mama," Solange whispered. "Mama?"

Only then was she certain it wasn't a dream. With some difficulty, thanks to drowsiness, Marguerite sat up and brushed her hair away from her face. She and Solange were alone. There was a gaping hole in the bed beside her—just as when she had fallen asleep.

"What are you doing out of bed?" she asked, not without a touch of annoyance. Did Erik know about Solange's bad dreams? No doubt he had some kind of remedy for that, too.

"I'm sick."

"What is it?"

"My stomach hurts, and I keep coughing. Can I sleep with you? My room is too cold."

Alarmed, Marguerite reached out and felt the girl's forehead. It certainly felt as though she had a fever. In over three years, their daughter had suffered hardly anything worse than a sneeze! Hopefully it would get no more extreme than this. Marguerite got out of bed and helped Solange climb up into the spot she had been sleeping in, where it was already warm.

"Stay right there," Marguerite whispered. "I'm going to get Papa." She kissed the warm forehead and hurried out of the room and down the stairs. Erik was at the piano, predictably enough, surrounded by papers, a few lit candles, and his mask. His arms were folded with his face buried in them, leaning against the instrument. It was too dark to read the clock on the mantle, but Marguerite no longer cared about the hour.

"Erik," she said. He did not move or speak. She tried again. He finally looked up. His face was haggard and his hair in disarray, but his eyes glittered, almost defying the darkness.

"What do you want?"

_A lot of things_. "Solange is ill. She came into m—our room just now. Will you come see her?" Before the question was even complete, Erik had sprung from the piano and was on his way to the stairs. She followed him, breathless by the time she reached the room. He was crouched at the side of the bed and hastily examining the little girl huddled in its blankets.

"Solange," he said, "you are not to move from this bed until you feel better. Try to get some sleep for now."

"Yes, Papa," she murmured, closing her eyes obediently.

Erik stood and turned to Marguerite, his face stony. "At times like this, often it's better to let the fever go for a few hours on its own." She only nodded in acquiescence. "I will make a tonic in the morning for it, and the coughing, if it's not any better. For now, I'll find something to help her sleep."

"All right," Marguerite said, sighing as she watched him leave the room without another glance at her. By now she was well adjusted to the darkness, and she saw the pleading in Solange's eyes, open once again. "All will be well, _petit_," she said. "Drink what Papa gives you, and it'll help." How ironic to be giving her daughter the advice she herself refused to take. Her heart breaking at Solange's pain, Marguerite moved to the other side of the bed and crawled in beside her, tucking the little body into the curve of her own.

He found them that way when he finally came back with a sleeping potion for Solange. Marguerite's face was nestled against the back of her neck, her eyes closed tightly. Solange's eyes were closed, too, but she was not any more peaceful. It was obvious she was trying to sleep, but once in a while, her cheeks would puff outward with a cough she tried to withhold, getting it stuck in her throat.

"Solange," he whispered, nudging her. "Drink this, and you'll feel better when you wake up." He held a cup under her nose until she slowly rose to a sitting position. Marguerite had opened her eyes when Erik spoke, and she too rearranged herself. With only a little hesitation, the child drank the medicine and lay back down. Without looking at Erik, Marguerite curled up next to her again, stroking her arm and delicately touching her hair. In a few minutes, Solange was breathing deeply and evenly, and both mother and father relaxed.

"I should have brought some for you, too," Erik said.

"No, I have to wake up easily if she should need something."

"She won't wake up for hours, and you need your rest for tomorrow."

Surprised, she looked up at him. "I'm going nowhere tomorrow!" she whispered.

He shrugged. "She's in perfectly competent hands with me, you know. And you have a _promise_ to keep, don't you? I would hate to have you go back on your word."

_Not now_, she thought. _Please not now_. "Pierre would understand. He knows I have my own child to look after." She traced Solange's pale cheek. "She will be all right, won't she?"

"You have nothing to worry about."

"I'm glad. But I'm still going to stay here tomorrow, just to make sure."

"Perhaps you misunderstood me. I said I can handle everything."

"I just don't know if I can leave her at a time like this."

"I insist."

_He wants me gone, too_. _He wants me far away_. She did not say another word, but shut her eyes, listening to her daughter's breathing. At the same time, behind the darkness of her unopened lids, she was hurting, yearning to feel Erik's hand upon her hair, his fingertips against her shoulder—anything—so long as she had something to give her hope. Moments later, she heard his footsteps move away, out of the room, and downstairs. Soon the tinkling piano keys invaded her ears—a melancholy, bittersweet tune. The child slept on, undisturbed.

* * *

Sickening. 

Useless.

Pathetic.

That was just the kind of mother she was. At least, it was precisely how she felt, when she found herself considering keeping her plans and leaving Solange that morning. The day itself offered nothing better; the sky was thick and low with clouds, and the air was cool, even without the hesitant breeze.

"No," Erik was saying. "You were so insistent on going, there's no need to back down now. I can take care of things."

"Oh, but—"

He held up a hand. "Please, don't argue. You needn't change your plans. Nothing will happen. Even if it does, I can look after Solange just as well as you."

The words stung, but Marguerite was unwilling to argue this time. What he said was true enough, even though it still did not rest well within her to leave. Feeling guilty, she went up to the bedroom, where Solange was still asleep. Biting her lip, she watched her daughter for a while before going back downstairs. Erik had gotten Rousseau ready, and he helped her into the saddle with as little emotion as she thought was possible.

"I'll be home this evening," she said arbitrarily, meeting Erik's eyes with as much a beseeching look as she could muster. His own were distant.

Her heart jumped into her throat with a sharp pain as she turned the horse in the direction of Pierre's farm. The last time they parted thus, Erik had met with a group of bandits, been beaten savagely, and almost died. Did he feel no concern for _her _safety? Had the idea even passed through his mind, or was he only too eager to see her figure disappearing over the horizon, not to return for hours? True, he had taken many of those thieves out of commission. Perhaps he was demonstrating a believe that she could take care of herself.

Marguerite almost laughed at the idea, and urged Rousseau into a faster trot.

She had never imagined that the next time she laid eyes on the Garceau's farm, it would be accompanied by a gusty sigh of relief, both for her own safety and the idea of being indoors. The breeze had not been bothersome when she left, but after riding into it for almost an hour, it had become almost oppressive. Approaching the house, Marguerite forced back a scowl when she saw Josette's face appear in the window. She had reason to smile again when Pierre and Gilles emerge from the barn, the former offering a friendly wave.

"_Madame_, I'm so very glad to see you!" Pierre offered an aged hand to help her down, and Gilles silently took the horse with him back into the barn.

"Marguerite, if you please," she corrected.

"Of course. Marguerite…It's such a blessing you're here! I must admit, I hadn't expected to see you today."

She frowned, puzzled. "I did say I would come in two days."

"Certainly, certainly," Pierre said, clearing his throat. "But as you see, the sky is not exactly promising." He pointed upwards, and Marguerite turned her gaze to follow. Indeed, the clouds had become darker and appeared much heavier than before.

"Oh, blast it all," she murmured. "I had hoped it would only be overcast today, but it looks like rain for sure. I thought it might hold. Solange is not well, and I felt terrible at leaving her."

"For heaven's sake, why did you?"

"Well…Erik seemed rather insistent. He said he had everything under control." Even then, it felt lame to her own ears. What was she supposed to say? _Erik thinks he can take better care of her than I can, and he's probably right_. _I'm so tired of arguing with him anyway, I just gave up and did as he said_.

Pierre chuckled. "No doubt about that. Well, I wouldn't worry about it. Oh, I know you're a mother and you can't _help_ worrying, but Apolline used to get sick every spring when she was a child. It was never anything lasting." He placed a hand under her elbow. "But come in, please, before the sky comes down on us."

Trying to maintain her smile, she followed him inside. Josette did not say anything to her until Pierre encouraged her to. Even then, it was only a mumbled greeting. Pierre took Marguerite into the tiny bedroom in the back of the house, where Apolline, looking exhausted, was holding a tiny infant. When she came in, Marguerite imagined Apolline's smile spoke more of pride for her child than any gladness at the younger woman's presence, but she was glad for it still.

"Good morning," Apolline said. "I just finished feeding him." She lifted up the bundle, showing a healthy boy, if a bit on the small side. "Patrice Garceau."

"He's absolutely lovely," Marguerite said, sincerely, with a sidelong grin at Pierre that Apolline failed to notice. "Is Sébastien glad to have a brother?"

"Oh, I suppose," Apolline said. "He's not interested in babies, of course, a boy at his age. I believe Josette is rather disappointed she hasn't gotten a sister this time around." She bit her lip. "I had a girl before, not two years after Sébastien was born. She died after a few weeks. I don't think Josette remembers her, but she knows."

"She'll grow to love him," Marguerite assured her, taking Patrice when Apolline offered him. "How could she not? He's a beautiful child."

Suddenly, all four of them—little Patrice included—were startled by the sudden clatter of rain upon the roof. They had not noticed until then that the sky had grown even darker. Marguerite felt another pang of dread; hopefully it would not last long. When the infant started to cry, she gave him back to his mother for consolation.

"Well then," she said, perhaps a little too crisply, "what would you have me do first?"

"Oh, but—" Apolline began to speak to Marguerite, then turned to her father with a pleading expression. He shrugged. "But," she started again, "we didn't—he didn't ask you to come to be a maid. I just…it was company, that's all."

"As you like," Marguerite said. "But if there's anything I can help to do…" _If there's something to keep my mind _off_ anything, more like,_ she corrected herself.

"I was up and doing work when I had the other children," Apolline said regretfully. "I've just been so tired this time around, I still can't stand for many hours at a time. Josette's been helping a great deal."

"I'll see what she's doing now," Marguerite offered, leaving the room. Josette was startled by her reappearance, almost dropping the dish she was drying. _Yes, all very well to be nervous,_ Marguerite thought, then scolded herself for her pettiness. True, Josette had picked a fight with her daughter and slighted her husband, but she was an ignorant child. Apolline had overcome her personal prejudices to some extent, at least…hopefully she would teach her offspring to do the same.

"I'll finish that," Marguerite told Josette, her voice raised slightly to be heard over the rain. "Go sit with your mama and new brother."

As she finished the dishes, Gilles and Sébastien, both very damp, came into the house. After being prompted to greet the lady, the little boy headed straight for the garret room he shared with his sister. Gilles greeted her himself and made a few nervous inquiries after her family.

"Your son is precious," she offered with a smile. "Both of them." For this, she only received a nod before he went into the bedroom. In a moment, Pierre came out.

"Apolline begs me to tell you not to do another thing. She's feeling quite guilty enough."

She went back into the bedroom to sit and make conversation, but her mind was constantly drifting back to Erik and Solange. How foolish could she be? As she had believed, Apolline would not have minded postponing this visit until Marguerite felt more comfortable leaving her daughter. The weather was a ruthless reminder. She passionately hoped for a cessation of this driving rain, vowing to never again allow herself to enter a situation like this. As soon as she got home, she would tell Erik just that, no doubt about it, and she would make the promise to Solange's face.

* * *

Erik had just come into the bedroom to check on Solange when he saw her eyelids flutter, and she finally awoke. She was startled to see her father hovering above her instead of her mother, but quickly got over it and sat up in bed. 

"Good morning, Solange," Erik said, hunkering down beside her. "Are you feeling better?"

She coughed. "I dunno." Her voice was hoarse. She paused. "No."

He touched her forehead; it was still too hot. "I'm going to get you something to make you feel better." _Perhaps she should eat something first_. He cursed himself for not having thought of it before. Hardly consuming food himself, even with Marguerite cooking he often forgot that others in the world had to eat more to survive.

"_Dove è il Mama?_"

He stopped in the doorway, pausing for a moment before turning back. "She's away, Solange, to visit Mme Garceau, remember?"

"Oh." Her expression changed, eventually resting somewhere between confused and sullen. She slid back down to nestle deeper into the blankets, her face half-buried in the pillow.

"Is there anything you want?" Erik asked in a more gentle tone. He received no answer, but she only scowled up at him, coughing a few times. He waited another minute, but still she said nothing, and he went back downstairs.

The downpour started when he was halfway between the house and the stables. He cursed and ran the rest of the way. The second horse munched his feed and watched Erik impassively as he slammed the door shut and walked past the stall to the ladder. After Nadir had left, Erik moved his supplies—what they had managed to take from the opera house—to the loft, where the Persian had slept in surprising comfort. The rainfall was even louder up there, though fortunately without leaks. Erik prided himself on his property's upkeep.

Setting everything in the kitchen, Erik went upstairs again to check on Solange. She was still curled up in bed, but it was obvious she had been crying. Her eyes were now as red and puffy as her nose, and there were tear tracks on her cheeks.

"Solange," Erik said with some disbelief. "Don't cry…you'll be all right."

"I want Mama," she rasped. "_Où est la Mama?_"

He blinked. "Mama's not here, Solange, I told you that. Come now, there's nothing to cry about. You'll feel better soon."

"No, I won't," she mumbled bitterly.

"I'm going to make you something that will help. I will be downstairs, and it won't take very long." He despised feeling awkward, and Erik was at the moment about as ill-at-ease as he had ever felt in his life. Once again, Solange didn't say anything, but before he could turn around to leave the room, she scrunched up her face, more tears flowing from her eyes.

"Everything is going to be all right." When she sobbed, he pulled back the blankets and picked her up, cradling her against him as he sat on the edge of the bed. He did not realize he had been holding his breath, but he let it out when he felt her relax a little against him. "I'm here," he whispered. "I won't let anything happen to you."

He hummed a little tune until she was further at ease, and then placed her back in the bed and went downstairs. Putting together a medicine for Solange took a little more time than he expected—had to stop to remember the best recipe, and then adjust it for her small size. The rain was still falling steadily when he was done, and he glared at it through the window. So be it. Marguerite would have reached the farm by the time it started…he hoped.

Along with the tonic, Erik brought Solange a piece of bread and jam, with a cup of water. A little food in her stomach would certainly help things. However, she refused it.

"No, Papa, I don't want it," she said. "My stomach hurts."

"If you insist," he said. "But you have to swallow _this_ if you want it to stop hurting."

She looked at the concoction with more suspicion than she had with the stuff from the night before. "Will it make me sleepy?"

"No, but it will make you feel better." He poured it into a spoon, and after another minute of coaxing, she swallowed it down, pulling a face.

"Ugh, it tastes so bad!" She reached for the cup of water, and drank it greedily, handing it back to him with a shudder. "I don't feel better."

Erik closed his eyes and sighed. "You have to wait a little bit, Solange." She looked away from him. He started to gather everything to take it back to the kitchen. "Are you sure you don't want to eat this bread?"

"I don't want it," she repeated, pouting.

"Is there anything you _do_ want?"

She sniffled, coughed, and whimpered before she managed to answer him. "I want Mama. Where is she? I want to see Mama."

"She'll be back soon," Erik said, seeing how the child began to tremble ever so slightly. "Are you cold?"

"_Da_," she said. He brought the blankets from her bed and tucked them around her and tried to smile. She did not return the attempt, but stared at him with her green eyes dulled by sickness.

"I know," he said. "Would you like to have Beatrice in here with you?" Without waiting for an answer, he went into the sitting room, where she was dozing, oblivious to the stress in the house, or the rain outside of it. Cats were the strangest beasts; any other piece of furniture would have been softer, but she had chosen the hard surface of the piano bench for her nap. Erik brought her up to the bedroom and set her down beside his daughter, petting the animal until she curled up again.

"I want Mama," Solange said again. She was still shaking, and her voice was barely a whisper. "_S'il te plait, Papa_." She sat up, suddenly, coughing violently, dragging in her breath as though her throat was made of sand.

Erik watched with anxiety. It should have worked by now, his medicine. Had he done something wrong with it by accident? He glanced out the window, but the rain was pouring down. Marguerite had only been gone a few hours, and she certainly would not be heading back in this rain. Silently cursing himself, he realized Solange could not be alone for more than a few minutes. And taking her with him to fetch his wife was absolutely out of the question.

"I can't bring her to you just yet, Solange," he said as calmly as he could. "Just lie back and rest. You'll feel better soon. Look." He pointed to the cat. "Beatrice is here to keep you company, and Mama will be home soon." Putting his palm to her forehead, he realized her fever had _not _run its course. Good God, what else was he supposed to do? Each little cough, sob, and sneeze of hers sent a pang through him that was almost physical. He couldn't stand to see his daughter in such a state. What else was there to do?

"Papa, I'm scared."

"There's nothing to be afraid of," he said. "I'm right here, I won't leave you. Everything is just fine." The words were spoken to himself as much as to her. She had been perfectly healthy up until this point, and Erik supposed they had taken it for granted. For such a swift, sudden illness to descend upon her was unsettling indeed.

Erik held Solange's hand, quietly singing, until she finally went back to sleep. He sat there in the dim light of a rainy day, weighing his options. Finally he had to admit there was nothing left to do. Heaving a tortured sigh, he watched his daughter sleep, zealously listening for the first sign of the weather taking any kind of turn for the better.

* * *


	25. Terror to Earth, and Tempest to the Air

**A/N: Why? Oh, why, why am I doing this to myself? I have 2 English finals tomorrow. Yes, TWO. And my most difficult final is on Wednesday. I'm so stressed out and angsty, I have to write this. It helps. I think. No, it's just a waste of time. But I love it anyway. Enjoy this chapter. Oh, the angst…oh my…yes…the angst. We love it, do we not?**

Disclaimer: Don't write fan fiction when you're supposed to be studying.

* * *

"The dampness can't be doing anything for her," Marguerite murmured as she stared out the window. Raindrops en masse pounded angrily against the glass, as though the very weather wanted to get into the house to be saved from itself. _Why, why, why?_ she kept asking herself. It didn't help, of course, but she could not stop doing it all the same. 

The evening hours were well upon them, and still the rain had not ceased. The wind had picked up as well, turning the balmiest days of late spring into a torrential nightmare. Even if she could have seen where she was going, it might have blown Marguerite and the horse off-course.

The only solace she had was the thought of Erik preparing a remedy for Solange, no doubt making her feel better quickly. They were probably having a jolly time, with him singing to her, or teaching some new magic trick of his. Certainly he would not allow _her _to sing. Marguerite smiled, thinking of the time she had woken with a sore throat, on a day when Erik had promised her a singing lesson. Instead, he had barely allowed her to speak. Solange surely would have gotten her wish to not sing all day. He might have her play the piano, perhaps…

"If you have no objections, you are welcome to a place in the attic for the night," Apolline offered diffidently, joining Marguerite at the window. "It looks as though it will be dark before the rain stops."

"I thank you," she said. "I'm sorry if I'm not such an amusing guest today. I just wish I could be there for her right now."

"I understand." For a little while, the two women stared out the window, lost in their own thoughts. The children were upstairs, Pierre was fixing a piece of equipment at the table, and Gilles was tending to something in the barn. Patrice slept in his cradle in the bedroom. For all the people crowded inside, the house was surprisingly quiet.

Apolline cleared her throat before speaking in a much lower voice. "Marguerite?" It was barely loud enough to be heard over the downpour. She took a deep breath when Marguerite looked up at her. "I…I'm sorry for…for being unkind before…when you and your family were here. I don't understand, Marguerite. I don't understand your husband, or your attachment to him." She shrugged. "But I imagine you have your reasons. You're a good friend."

Marguerite released one breathy laugh and sprang to her feet to embrace Apolline tightly. Pierre watched this scene for a moment before turning back to his work with a shake of his head.

"_Women_," he whispered to himself, chuckling softly.

"It's all right," Marguerite said. "It's all right."

"How you must hate me," Apolline said.

"No." Marguerite shook her head. "I certainly don't!"

"I'm sorry I said your daughter was mad."

Marguerite looked away for a moment. "She's not mad—or possessed—she just has her father's temper. When Josette told her those things…Solange fought her because she didn't know any better, either."

"Oh, Marguerite," Apolline groaned, biting her lip, "Josette couldn't have heard those things but from me. It was hateful, I know, I…I've been no better than my own child. I scolded her—after you all left—for provoking Solange, but the truth is that I was the one who said it all first. And now Josette thinks you're going to bite off her nose out of revenge." Marguerite could not help giggling at that. "Oh, don't laugh! You can't believe how sorry I feel. And you were so nice to us, even then…"

"Well, I'll tell you truly," Marguerite said, "I only came this time because your father asked me to."

"Bless him," Apolline said with a chuckle. "I only agreed to let you come because he kept insisting. It was good for my health, to have another woman's company, he said. Something like that." She reached out and took Marguerite's hand. "But I'm glad you came."

Marguerite gave her a weak smile, wishing she herself was glad to have come. She just could not stop thinking about Solange. She hoped Erik was taking good care of her. Of course he was. As difficult as he could be, as demanding and exacting, he adored his daughter. That much Marguerite knew for certain, however he felt about _her_.

She tried to keep this in mind while she helped Apolline fix a meal for the family, and tried to keep the children from upsetting the house too much with their restlessness. She saw how Josette was inclined to taunt her brother persistently, provoking him to boyish indignation. No wonder she and Solange had fought. Apolline seemed resigned to it, unfortunately. Marguerite absently placed her hand over her belly, hoping Solange would get along with the new child better than Josette got along with Sébastien—and hoping she herself would live to see it.

Apolline caught Marguerite being morose once again. "Everything will be all right," she said. She placed a hand on her shoulder. "Only…Marguerite, may I ask you something personal?"

Marguerite smirked. "Why not?"

"Are you with child?" She asked in the lowest whisper she could manage. The look in Marguerite's eyes was answer enough.

"Is it so obvious?" she asked, clearly frightened.

Apolline smiled. "Not to men and young maidens, I'd say. Does your husband know?" Marguerite had not time to answer before Apolline chuckled. "Of course he doesn't, else he'd never, I'm sure, let you come all this way alone in your condition." She glanced toward the window. "When I'm carrying a child, Gilles only lets me do things for myself because he knows there's so much work to be done." She smiled. "You had better tell your own husband soon, or else he'll be quite—"

"He knows," Marguerite finally broke in.

"Oh." Apolline was clearly taken aback. "Well…"

"He didn't want me to break my promise to your father, that I would come today."

"Good lord, he must not care much for his child, then." She gasped at the look that came over her face. "Oh, no, Marguerite, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean that!"

"That begs the question, why you said it at all."

"I don't know. I wasn't quite thinking, I suppose." She inched a little closer to the younger woman. "Please don't take it to heart."

Marguerite looked up at her. "You should sit down and have a rest, Apolline. You've been on your feet too much today."

"Oh, bother it all, I'm quite well. _You_ ought to rest. You've been doing more work today. And you're the one who's…" She shrugged and let her words hang in the air. "I said, there's an extra pallet upstairs if you want it. You can stay as long as you need to."

"Thank you." Marguerite accepted the offer and ascended to the loft, where she stretched out on the rough mattress and listened to the rain beating a frantic rhythm on the roof right above her head. It did not seem to bother the children, who had been put to bed earlier in the evening.

Darkness stretched out its eager shadows as time passed, but the thoughts in Marguerite's head went much more quickly. She waited anxiously for the rest of the family to go to bed, feeling as though she had been a very bad guest. Well, she had made up her mind; rain be damned, she had to get home tonight. For some reason, she felt if she were to stay in this house that night, it would make things with Erik more difficult, not to mention increase her guilt about leaving Solange. Since she had disobeyed her instincts that morning and _not_ stayed at home, Marguerite knew she had to listen to them now.

The downpour disguised most sounds coming from below, but eventually she decided everyone had to be asleep, by now. She slowly rose from the mattress and, holding her breath, took careful steps back downstairs. As her vision adjusted to the darkness, she saw Pierre's form, asleep and snoring, in his own spot close to the stove. Looking out the window, there was no telling time by the sky. It was still too dark to see much of anything.

Fortunately, Marguerite managed to find a lantern and light it before creeping out the door. The rain had lightened only a little, and still made enough noise to muffle any she was making. Once she was out in the rain, her eyesight was even more impaired. For a moment, she had actually missed the barn and waded past it through the mud. By the time she doubled back and found the door, she was already soaked through.

She found Rousseau's stall without much trouble, but saddling him up with only the scanty light of one lantern was abominably frustrating. She cut her hand in the process, not bothering to hold back a yelp of pain. Finally she thought she had managed it, and led him out of the stall, to the open door. She could not help but glance up into the darkness far above her head, toward the hayloft where she had conceived the child she now carried. With a shudder, she pushed the thought away to concentrate on the task at hand.

"I'm sorry it's still ghastly out," she said to the horse, "but we have to go home." He followed her as far as the exit, but hesitated when confronted by the chilly rain.

"Come on, you sorry beast," Marguerite muttered, tugging on the reigns and almost dropping the lantern. She groaned in frustration, finally convincing Rousseau to step out into the rain. She left the lantern by the door, hopefully sheltered, before mounting and turning her steed toward the road.

A few minutes were enough to make her begin to doubt her own judgment. Rousseau plodded through the mud, looking just as miserable in the damp and wind as his rider. The rain soaked through Marguerite's clothes, making them weightier than usual. The dark hair hanging around her face did not do much to help matters, either, and she hunched forward, keeping her head down whenever possible. Soon her hands felt numb on the reins, except for the searing pain shooting through the injured flesh of her right hand.

"If you hurry, we'll get there sooner," she grumbled to Rousseau, knowing he probably would not even hear her. And why, after all, was she bothering to talk to a horse?

* * *

Erik sighed with relief when he saw Solange had finally slipped back into unconsciousness. His sleeping tonic seemed to be the only thing that worked for her. What a fool he had been to tell Marguerite not to stay behind and look after her own child! All day, Solange had not stopped asking for her mother, even though she very well knew where her mother had been. Erik had not imagined how difficult it would be. Defeat was permeating his spirit, and he loathed it. Why had nothing else worked? If only he could leave her alone for more than a few minutes at a time, _then_ he could experiment and come up with something that would help. But even as she slept, he didn't dare to leave the house for the stables. 

_I don't want to play a requiem for you,_ he thought, looking down at his little girl. Her skin was now as pale as his had been, when he lived in the opera house. When they opened, her eyes were dull with suffering. She could barely move, except to cough and drag air into her aching lungs, and her voice was almost completely gone. It was incredible, over the course of a day, how much her health had deteriorated.

"Please try, Solange," he whispered. "You must live. You have to sing your father's requiem. It's not supposed to be the other way around." Of course there was no response from her; he had not expected one. He leaned down and hesitantly kissed her dainty cheek. It was still hot with fever and he felt sick himself at the feel of it.

_God, if You're there, why are You letting this happen? She didn't do anything_. _You've taken Your vengeance out on me long enough_. _When will You finally be sated on my agony?_ _Leave my daughter alone_._ She doesn't deserve this_._ When will it be enough for You? Leave me in peace!_

Suddenly, a new sound from outside caught his thoughts and dragged them elsewhere. He held his breath, listening, but heard nothing more. After a few minutes, it came again, and he went down the stairs to see what it was.

It couldn't be…

But oh, how he wanted it to be…

There was nothing at the front door, so he went through the kitchen to the back. He grasped the door latch and yanked it open.

For a moment, Erik just stared at the panting, bedraggled, dripping figure in the doorway, her arm stretched out to open the door for herself. The sight of her almost terrified him. Her black hair hung straight and sodden around her face, which was dreadful with pallor. Her eyes, enormous but unblinking, gazed going right through him as if she did not even see. She almost looked like a fresh corpse, only moments ago pulled from her watery grave.

When Erik stepped back to let her in, she walked past him without a word and went up the stairs to the bedroom. After a few seconds, he followed, stepping carefully over the puddles she had created. When he came into the room, she was just standing over the child. Solange moved her lips in her feverish sleep, though no sound came out of them.

"Thank you for coming back," he whispered. For once in his life, he was actually afraid to speak.

She turned around and really looked at him. "You shouldn't thank me," she said. Her voice was cold. "I didn't come back for you."

Once again, her words gave him the feeling of being punched in the stomach. This time, he admitted to himself that it was quite deserved. He had intended to punish her for refusing his counsel, and instead caused them both lasting damage. Good lord, how was he supposed to fix things now? He still loved her as much as he ever did, but when was the last time he showed her? She must hate him after all that had happened. He could see it in her eyes, at least when she deigned to look at him. Was there any way to apologize? He had an inkling she wouldn't accept shallow words, and she looked far from eager to touch him.

"She looks worse," Marguerite said, her vision still fixed on Solange.

Was that accusation in her voice? "The only thing that has worked is the sleeping potion," Erik explained, "but I couldn't give her much more. In a child so young, it might do worse damage."

"I see."

In the awkward silence that followed, Erik left the room for a moment, returning with a towel. "There's nothing you can do for her right now."

"Yes," she said bitterly. "You've taken care of everything, haven't you."

"Marguerite," he said. "Please."

"Please _what?_"

For a moment, they stood there and glared at each other. Then Erik held out the towel to her. "Dry off," he murmured. He kept himself from flinching when she snatched it out of his hand and marched to the other side of the room, closer to the fireplace.

She couldn't explain why there were tears gathering behind her eyes as she took her nightgown out of the wardrobe and draped it over the edge of the chair. Refusing to look at Erik, she quickly stripped off her sodden clothes and dried off with the towel. When she donned the nightgown, she put her dress and undergarments over the chair and slid it closer—not too close—to the fire. She wrapped the towel around her head and moved back over to the bed. Solange's state had not changed. Marguerite reached out and rubbed her arm, whispering to her.

"You shouldn't—" Erik started to say, but then thought better of it.

Solange began to stir, and Marguerite leaned over her. "Solange? _Petit_, I'm here. Mama's here."

Solange flinched, and then her eyes opened. "Mama?" she mouthed between dry lips.

"Yes, darling. Mama's here." She climbed into the bed, curling up beside her daughter as she had done before.

After that, Solange did nothing but sigh and close her eyes again. Marguerite kissed her hair and then followed suit.

Erik watched them. The bond between mother and daughter, often palpable, ever mysterious, was now before his very eyes. He could teach Solange everything she needed to know about the world, but she and his wife were linked together in a way he could never fully comprehend. If it was so strong now, after three years, how much more had it been when Solange was still in the womb? Erik could not have seen, and had not wanted to know…but Marguerite had _felt _it the entire time. Come what may, she would know something he didn't; she would value Solange's life in a way he never could, no matter how much he, too, loved her. Erik understood the blood connection between himself and his daughter, but he had not suffered for her the way Marguerite had done, and the way she was prepared to do for yet another child.

It might kill her to give birth again, yes. But if he divested her of this other child, then that, too, would kill her…sooner.

_Say you need me with you here, beside you_…_Anywhere you go, let me go, too_…

"Marguerite," Erik whispered, still standing over them, unsure what to do.

She opened her eyes, but said nothing, only watching him balefully.

"I needed you here today," he said. When he saw she was about to speak, he quickly added, "I shouldn't have insisted you go. I put both of you in danger."

She pressed her lips together, and he saw her eyes were shiny with tears. "My little girl needed me today, and I wasn't here for her. _I_ made the wrong choice."

When she closed her eyes again, Erik knew she would say no more that night. He went downstairs and sat at the piano, feeling a dull pain all over his body. She was fighting him for this child the way she had fought for Solange. He saw it plainly now, and finally decided to yield to it. Even if it brought about her own death, she was willing to let her baby live. But then, if Erik had his way, and she got rid of the child before she was at too much risk, Marguerite would certainly never forgive him. Either way, he was going to have to face the possibility of losing her. If one option was _inevitable_ and the other _likely_—he had to take his chances, and savor what time they had.

That did not mean he wanted to face it. If he had to play a requiem for both wife and daughter—and go back to the life he had—he could never survive.

* * *

**A/N: I hope my wasted time ain't been in vain for nothin' (if I may quote _Singin' in the Rain_): Review, pretty please!**


	26. For the Better

**A/N: Well, indeed, I am sorry to have kept you all waiting this long before I updated. Working in the first week of my break took up more time than I had anticipated, and then there was Christmas of course, and subsequent traveling. And my grades came in the mail last week—As and Bs! So therefore I suppose writing fanfiction is not so detrimental after all, and I'm not stopping anytime soon! (As if I would…)**

**For all the delay, I'm sorry to tell you, this chapter is a bit shorter than they've been (but important, of course), but I'll make up for it in the next one!**

Disclaimer: The song is from the poem "The Passionate Shepherd to His Love," by Christopher Marlowe

* * *

"Perhaps she would benefit from seeing the doctor," Marguerite said. 

Erik shook his head in the negative, to no surprise of hers. "With you back, I can tend to her better, and we…I have everything under control."

"Of course you do," Marguerite said, smiling sardonically. "As always."

Erik hesitated, watching her, before saying, "Perhaps not…everything."

She just flicked her eyebrows and turned back to look at Solange, who was flushed with fever and asleep beneath almost all the blankets in the house. Marguerite watched her lids twitch with the movement of the eyes underneath them, and wondered what Solange was seeing in her young mind. She just barely touched the tiny, unresponsive hand, heaving a sigh as she thought of what else there was for her to do.

"How did you leave Pierre and his family?"

Marguerite had to allow herself the smallest grin at his attempt to make civilized conversation. It was about time he asked; she had been home for hours. "Quite well, I think. He seems to be aging—which is to be expected, I suppose. Apolline was tired and weakened, but astonishingly grateful for my presence. Gilles was just…civil, and the children quarreled almost every time they were together during my visit."

"And no wonder," Erik said, frowning, "with such a little witch of a daughter they've got."

Marguerite bit her lip. "I have to agree, she's been no friend to our own. Perhaps it's Solange's superior intellect at such an inferior age to Josette's. But of course, that's no real excuse for her behavior toward our girl," she added before Erik could voice those very words. With a glance out the window, she rose to her feet. "I thought that rain would never stop."

"Perhaps it's the first of many unpleasant things that will pass in time," Erik said, casting her yet another meaningful look.

"If that may be so, it would be wonderful, indeed." Marguerite moved toward the doorway. "Since she's asleep and you are determined to neither leave her side nor take rest yourself, I think I'll go downstairs and make up some kind of breakfast. We'll have to maintain our strength one way or another."

Erik said nothing as she left the room and went down to the kitchen. He kept a watch over their daughter, whose breath still came with some difficulty, and whose heart beat at an unusually high rate. Yet her sleep was as peaceful as it could be under such circumstances. After some amount of time had slipped away, Erik began to wonder how Marguerite was occupying herself. There were no sounds coming from downstairs, or any smell of cooking. When many more minutes had passed, he tore himself from Solange's bedside to go see what was going on.

The house seemed desolate and eerily silent, but when Erik came through the hall and into the kitchen doorway, he found Marguerite seated at the little table, her arms folded upon it with her forehead pressed to them. Only a sniff or two could be heard from her.

"Marguerite," he murmured.

Suddenly, her head came up as though she had been caught in a dishonest activity. Her eyes were very red, and her face shone with moisture.

"Erik, what will we do if we lose her?" she whispered around a sob. "She's my darling and my joy, and I…I couldn't live if she should be taken from us. I could endure a number of things, I know, but not this—_not this!_"

Her face twisted as she burst into tears afresh. This broke any last reserve Erik possessed, and he hurried over and pulled her against him. He patted her shoulders and rubbed her back as she clung to him, barely able to restrain his own tears. His mind worked to find something he could say that would possibly console her, but came up empty.

"And if," she went on, "if she should perish of this fever, and I were to die in childbirth later on…what would become of _you?_"

How could he comfort her when he held the very same concerns?

"I can assure you," he said, finally finding his voice again, "I would not live long after."

"You are very close to her," Marguerite said through her tears. "Of course you, too, would feel her loss with unendurable pain."

"I speak of you as well, Marguerite. I have already told you I could not bear it if I lost you. Either of you."

"I thought…you were angry with me…because I'm having another child."

"I was, and just as much at myself. But Marguerite, I know now I can't make you give it up."

She looked up at him, almost shyly, with her dripping, pink eyes. "I would have thought you'd try to trick me into swallowing that…"

"And pass it off as a miscarriage, perhaps?"

There was a long silence before Marguerite said, "Yes." She spoke so softly he almost didn't catch it.

"Would you have come to realize it was my doing?"

"I think so."

"I hesitate to believe you would forgive me for such deception."

She faltered again before saying, "No, I would not."

He cupped the back of her head and held her closely to him. "Then we are agreed—by trying to keep you alive I would still lose you." It was his turn to pause, before he kissed the top of her head. He felt such relief when she did not move away from him. On the contrary, her fingers curled around his thin arm and clung as though it was the only thing that mattered in the moment. It had been a long time since she had been close enough for him to feel the heat from her body seeping into his.

"I may yet live, Erik," she said, having managed to calm herself. "It's no certainty that I die from bearing this child. I was merely imagining the worst that could happen."

A horrible chill scrabbled its way up his spine and slid back down again. "We'll discuss this another time," he said. Though he believed the words were necessary, he held his breath and waited for an indignant response.

"Very well," she said, but there was no coldness or offense in her voice. She did, however, move away to stand up, a little shaky. "One of us should go back upstairs and look after her. I don't…think I can make anything just now."

Erik took her hand and stared straight into her eyes. "You go. I'll make some tea."

Marguerite smiled weakly. "Will you play something instead?"

Erik had not touched his hand to the piano from the time Solange had fallen ill, and it had been even longer since Marguerite had made a request for him to do so. "If you like," he said, turning away. When he felt something brush his hand, he looked back and met her gaze again.

"Thank you," she said, briefly squeezing his hand before following him out of the room. They parted at the stairway, she going up to sit with her child, and he continuing into the sitting room to settle at the piano. Solange's state had not altered. Marguerite slid the chair to the head of the bed and sat down, taking the child's hand again.

"Please try, my little darling," she whispered, leaning against the wall. "You have not lived yet." She closed her eyes. "Dear God, please don't take her from us. Do what You must, but don't give me more than I could bear. You know I couldn't bear to lose my little girl. She will have so much to offer the world. Don't…don't let her die."

Her throat tightened, but tears did not come; they had all been spent. She sighed and her shoulders slumped. She listened to Solange's breathing, and the flames crackling in the fireplace; it was a very short while before the piano and Erik's voice joined those sounds.

_Come live with me and be my love,_

_And we will all the pleasures prove_

_That hill and valley, dale and field,_

_And all the craggy mountains yield_.

_There we will sit upon the rocks,_

_And see the shepherds feed their flocks,_

_By shallow rivers to whose falls_

_Melodious birds sing madrigals_.

As the song continued, Marguerite almost fell asleep herself, exhausted and lost in the music. She was jerked back to life when she felt a stirring beneath her hand. She sucked in her breath and looked at Solange. The girl's eyes were open, and she looked right into Marguerite's.

"Mama," she rasped, "can I have some water?"

"_Petit_," Marguerite said, her face breaking into a great smile, "of course." It was the first coherent thing Marguerite had heard out of her daughter since coming home the night before. She quickly hugged her, and then noticed the perspiration on Solange's forehead. "One moment." She almost tripped and took a tumble down the stairs in her hurry.

"Erik!" Gasping, she rushed to his side. He was still at the piano, but had stopped to select another tune. "Erik, her fever is breaking, and she woke up to ask for water. You must go to her." Not waiting to watch him do just that, she moved on to the kitchen to pour a cup of water, scolding herself for not having had one ready at the bedside table.

Erik was kneeling at the bed when she came back into the room, quietly speaking to Solange. Marguerite held back with the cup until Solange's eyes turned to her, and the girl's lips curled into a feeble smile.

"How are you feeling, darling?" Marguerite asked her. She held the water to Solange's mouth and let her drink before getting an answer from her. "Do you feel better now?"

"Yes." But then, she frowned. "I had bad dreams," she whispered, "and I…don't remember things."

Marguerite and Erik's stomachs simultaneously clenched and fell to the floor.

"What kinds of things?" Erik asked.

Solange looked perturbed at his suddenly curt tone, and appeared to shrink back into the pillows and coverings. "I don't remember coming in here. I don't remember Mama coming back."

"It's all right, _petit_," Marguerite said, resting her hand on Solange's hair, feeling relieved. "It's all right, it's not important."

"What's the last thing you remember?"

"Erik, you shouldn't be so—"

"_Please!_"

She held her tongue, but Solange looked ready to weep. Erik repeated the question, softening his voice.

"You and Mama were angry," she answered. "I don't know why. You didn't talk to each other. Then I went to bed, but I woke up in here, and it was all hot and cold. Then you made me drink something. I don't remember. Are you very angry at me?"

Marguerite and Erik looked at each other, ashamed. At seeing the beseeching in Marguerite's eyes, Erik answered the question for Solange.

"No, _soleil_, we're not. Not at you, or…each other…anymore."

He glanced at Marguerite. Her warm smile of confirmation would have brought him to his knees had he not already been situated thus. Perhaps he should not have allowed himself to become so dependant upon this woman, but it was not to be undone.

"Do you want anything?" Marguerite asked, putting the empty cup on the floor before leaning over her again. "Are you too warm? Cold? Do you want me to bring Beatrice in?"

Solange coughed. "Will you read to me?" she asked her mother, her voice still hoarse.

Marguerite straightened, smiling again, and agreed. Erik held back a retort when he caught a gleam of smugness in her eyes as she left to fetch a book. Beatrice followed her back up from the sitting room when she returned.

Erik opened the window, at both Marguerite and Solange's request. They had not even noticed the room's stuffiness until a fresh breeze entered it. The late spring air still carried the tang of the heavy, cleansing rain. It served well to clear their heads and sweep away the oppressive pall of illness, making everyone feel just a bit better.

Eventually, Marguerite thought Solange looked tired, and she stopped reading. "I saw Madame Garceau's new baby," she told her. "He's a sweet little thing."

"It's a boy?" Solange sounded disappointed.

"Yes, his name is Patrice."

"Oh." Solange yawned. "I wanted her to have a girl."

"Well, these things happen a certain way, no matter how you'd like them to," Marguerite said, her lips twitching as she held back a smile. As Solange's nose wrinkled, she pulled out a handkerchief in anticipation. Sure enough, the child released a spectacular sneeze that sent Beatrice scurrying under the bed, and Marguerite was ready to wipe her nose.

"Erik," she said, "would you mind getting me a bowl of warm water and a thick cloth? I need to wash her face."

By the time Marguerite was finished wiping Solange's face—and moving on to her neck, arms, legs, and feet—the child was ready to go back to sleep. Marguerite dumped the water out the window, and Erik drew the curtains. As their daughter drifted off to sleep, they moved quietly out of the room and downstairs. Marguerite put the bowl away and leaned against the wall with a sigh.

"She's going to be all right," she said. "Do you see now? God is not so cruel."

"She's not out of danger yet," Erik said.

"Perhaps not, but there's more reason to hope than before." To his surprise, she crossed the floor to stand in front of him, and wrapped her arms around his waist. Pressing her cheek against his chest, she whispered, "I've missed you."

He returned the action, resting his chin on the top of her head. "I'd give anything to turn back time and keep you from leaving yesterday."

"So would I," she said. Leaning her head back to look up at him, she added, "Solange needed me, and…so did you."

"Yes," Erik said, closing his eyes.

"Erik, I began to think I would die if things had continued as they were—the hostility, I mean. I can't say we'll never quarrel again, or that I'll do whatever you say. I can't promise the impossible. You must know this."

Erik found no need to say anything. Of course he agreed; when was the last time she had really listened to him? Though it was true, as well, that there had been something so very wrong in the past few weeks, and both of them had been too thick-headed to do anything about it. He finally opened his mouth to say something, but she went on speaking.

"And then, I must ask…Are you quite certain, now, that you will stop trying to make me get rid of this child I'm carrying?" She would rather not bring it up again, but she wanted to be absolutely certain. She wanted to hear him say it.

"I will stop," he said, "though I must admit, it seems selfish of you to simply sit back and cast your life away for this child, knowing it would destroy me and deprive Solange of her mother."

She frowned. "Erik, we don't know that for certain. But if we do things your way, someone will _absolutely_ die."

"Very well," he said moodily. "I will never again try to make you see things my way."

She had felt every one of his muscles tense, and knew she had nearly crossed the line to speaking out an unforgivable excess. She cleared her throat and tried for lightheartedness again, making sure she smiled in order to take any sting out of the words. "I daresay you'll discover some new source of dispute soon enough."

She laughed sincerely when she looked up again to see him glaring down at her. "Did you think I wanted an easy, obliging, dreary husband? If I had, I should never have married you. You should know that."

He snorted. "I distinctly remember you saying you wanted a _gentleman_."

"Indeed." She hugged him one more time. "You, Erik, are the most complicated gentleman I've ever met."


	27. Out of the Frying Pan

**A/N: Happy New Year, everyone! I'm so, so sorry it took me a long time to update _again_, but I was out of town…several times…and couldn't really work on it, except when I was on the airplane! Thank goodness for those, right? Ugh…**

Disclaimer: Marguerite is reading to Solange from _The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayam_, as translated by Edward Fitzerald in the mid 1800s.

* * *

Little by little, Solange showed marked improvement. Erik was, of course, very protective, and did not allow her to leave the bedroom for two more days. Marguerite slept beside her daughter every night, with Erik in the chair facing the bed, if he did deign to slumber like a common mortal. 

It was another week before Solange went outside—and only because Marguerite snuck her out the front door when Erik had gone to feed the horses. Marguerite told Solange to keep such activities between the two of them for a while, though she did not really trust such a young child to keep a secret. She seemed eager to be outside, however, and in a moment of particular precocity, she did not mention it to her father. She only smiled coyly at Marguerite when Erik finally took her outside himself the next day.

Marguerite was reading to Solange on the front step of the house, with a pastoral tune drifting from the piano, thanks to Erik.

_Into this Universe, and Why not knowing_

_Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing_;

_And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,_

_I know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing_.

Solange was not paying attention as she usually did when Marguerite read aloud to her, but her mother was not in the dark for long. Solange's appetite had returned, and she frequently asked for food, probably to make up for her earlier lack of nourishment. Marguerite was only too happy to oblige.

"She certainly doesn't have _your_ appetite," Marguerite said to Erik when he came into the kitchen as their daughter chewed and swallowed a third piece of bread. "Thank goodness for that." She turned back to the child. "You _are _much better, aren't you!"

Her mouth too full to speak, Solange only nodded. When she had eaten her fill—not too much, under Marguerite's watchful eye—she yawned, and Erik carried her up to her room and tucked her in for another nap. Back downstairs, he found Marguerite curled up on the settee, reading to herself.

"Have you told her yet?" he asked, sitting down beside her.

She lowered the book and looked at him, but he could tell a part of her mind was still on the words. "About what?"

"About the newcomer," he said, placing a hand on her belly, which still looked empty except to the two of them, who knew better. Immediately, Marguerite felt a surge of heat through her body from where he touched her, and wondered if the child inside could feel it as well.

"I haven't…yet," she said, speaking in a whisper as though there might be a chance Solange would hear them. "Why should I? She's been very sick, and doesn't need any news as exciting as that."

"What about _before _she was ill?"

She shrugged. "It was too early then. It just… didn't feel right." Her smile was sheepish. "I suppose I'm something of a coward. I don't want to answer the unending questions she's sure to ask when the time _does_ come for her to know."

"Well, she'll have to know _sometime_," Erik pointed out. "It would be best if she found out before you begin to show to the rest of the world."

"Not to the _world_, Erik! You know how inappropriate _that_ would be." She saw him grin a little at her own hypocrisy, but she ignored him. "Not to worry, dearest, I will tell her. As her mother, it really ought to be me who does tell her."

"As your dear maternal heart desires."

Marguerite lifted her chin slightly. "Thank you. Now, if you please, I'm going to make a little midday meal for _myself_, if you'd care to partake in it …"

Erik only waved his hand dismissively and moved to the far end of the sitting room, while she got up and went into the kitchen. He did not sit at the piano, but opened his violin case and reverently lifted the instrument out and tucked it under his chin. Something in it called to him, and of course he did not hesitate to obey. He did not think; he only moved the bow, his fingers dancing over the strings, seemingly of their own accord.

Gradually his mind drifted back to his childhood, to the time he first learned to play the very instrument he was holding—the violin he had left in his mother's house, and taken back after her death. She never got rid of anything, that woman, even memories of a son she hated so very much. She didn't have to; he had not been an angelic child, but he could have been as handicapped as his malformed face would suggest. She should have counted herself lucky for having a son of such splendid abilities…

He should have left such resentful feelings behind him long ago. He thought he had, until the music somehow, without his consent, dredged it all up again. If he kept it inside, it would kill him, and so he channeled it back into the music, and for the most part, he was nearly unconscious of it all. The blades of pain piercing at his mind became agonizingly beautiful waves of sound. Eyes clenched shut, he was dead to everything else in the world except that which poured forth so vehemently through his fingers and the bow's ballet.

When it came to an end, the last disappearing note leaving a ringing silence in the room, he stayed perfectly still, but for his deep breaths. Electricity crackled in the air. He finally opened his eyes, and saw Marguerite standing in the doorway. Shiny tear tracks stood out clearly on her face.

"Why?" she whispered.

He stared at her for a moment, his expression showing no sign that he even knew who she was. At last he said, "It was inside me. That's all I know."

"I'm so sorry."

This only earned her a skeptical look. "And why should you be?"

"Because I can't help you as much as I want to."

Her simple, heartbreaking honestly caused a very curious constriction in his throat. Setting the violin back in its case, he lifted a hand to beckon her over, like an old man on his deathbed, calling his son to hear the all-important last words.

She did come, taking his hand and settling to her knees beside the piano bench, where he himself was seated. The eyes looking up at him were wide open and inquiring, concerned and loving—but not terrified, not disgusted. "You have, more than you will ever know," he said, "no matter how it may seem otherwise."

For a few minutes, they stared at each other in companionable, passionate silence. A few staccato notes at the front door sent them crashing back into the world, where there were more human beings than just the two of them. Marguerite stood and brushed off her skirt, a slightly distracted look lingering in her eyes. She blinked it away quickly when she remembered that there was absolutely no reason why there should be anyone knocking at their door this time of the day…or any other time.

The source of the noise was a young mail courier. He gave her a letter, informing her that it had been given to him in a great hurry, and its author could not seem to overemphasize its importance. She thanked him and looked down at the writing as he rode away. It was addressed to Erik in a delicate female hand. With a twist of curiosity in her stomach, she closed the door and stepped back toward him.

"It has your name written on it. I thought it should be for me, from Katie, but…I see not." She stumbled over her own words, somehow irritated that he would receive such an obviously feminine note, and irritated with herself for letting it get to her. She held it out to him, and he took it, looking just as confused as she felt.

Frowning, he stared at the letter for a while before opening it. When he finally did so, Marguerite had to watch the blood drain from his face as he read. Ridiculously irrational thoughts invaded her mind like a thousand pirates, and horrific images of Christine came and went, each more melodramatic and disastrous than the next.

Though her agony was fierce, it was brief, until Erik thrust the paper out to her. He abruptly turned away when she took it, and went to lean against the fireplace mantle, as though to catch his breath. She watched him, concerned, and then looked down at the note in her hand. It was surprisingly short.

_Monsieur Erik,_

_This is a very difficult letter to write, but is done at my mother's request_._ In the past few years, her health has been declining, and because of her weakness, I am writing this letter at her request, as I have come home to care for her_._ She has expressed a wish to see you again, for reasons known only to her_._ You know, monsieur, she has always cared very deeply for you, as much as she respected and feared you, and she served you faithfully in all her years at the _Opera Populaire._ For her sake, I ask you to please come to Paris_. _As much as it grieves me to say this, I believe there is precious little time left to fulfill her wishes_. _It has now reached a point at which the doctor says I must prepare myself_. _I have included our address—the apartment should not be difficult to find_.

_My mother just now tells me you are married_. _She would like to see your wife, too, if that is possible_. _Mother says she understands your continuing wish to be left alone, without any reminders of the past, but we would be most obliged if you would come as soon as you can_. _There is no need to write back to inform her whether or not you shall do this, but the weather is fine and travel should not be difficult_.

_Most Sincerely,_

_Mlle Marguerite Giry_

Though written in her daughter's hand, the letter sounded very much like the woman Marguerite had met several years ago. She had forgotten Mme Giry had a daughter with the same name as herself.

"Of course you must go to her," Marguerite said. "She has done so much for you…for us. You must certainly go back to Paris."

"I'm not leaving you and Solange here alone."

She looked down at the letter again, running a finger over the hasty signature before she held it out to her husband again. "As it is addressed to you alone, you must use your own judgment in deciding what to do."

Erik took the piece of paper back. "She mentioned you, as well. You are to come with me." He cleared his throat and reread it.

"It would be safer for Solange if she stayed with the Garceaus," Marguerite said, mostly thinking out loud, "but they have far too much on their hands as it is." She glanced up at the ceiling. "We must either wait until she is completely well enough to travel—soon, I think—or you must go alone."

"I _said_ I'm not going without you. We will wait."

Marguerite swallowed nervously. "If we hesitate too long…Are you sure you have enough time to spare? The letter seemed quite urgent—"

"_I know what it said!_" he snapped. He stepped back further from her and rubbed his forehead with shaking hands. "I don't need _reminding_."

"I'm sorry, Erik, I really am. I know how much she meant to you."

"No," he said, shaking his head, "you don't. You don't know everything she did for me—good and bad." At the fearful expression on her face, he tried to smile and calm himself. "And you never need to, _ma chérie_."

"More secrets," she murmured. "I thought that was over years ago."

"If you don't wish to remain ignorant for your own sake, then make it for the child's," he said. "She needn't know everything about her father."

"I suppose I can agree to that," Marguerite said, looking away. "But we've gotten away from the topic. It seems the best course is for me to stay here with her. She's almost better, but you might not have time to wait. Send my fondest regards to Mme Giry, and my deepest apologies for not coming with you."

"Never!" Erik said hotly. "I'm _not _leaving her like that, or you in your condition. I will not allow myself to do such a thing."

She sighed. "What if she and I _both_ stay with the Garceaus, and that way I can help them and…No?" She bit her lip, wondering. "Well, by the time she's _completely _recovered, at least to _your_ satisfaction, I may not be fit to be seen in public—or to travel." She placed one hand over her stomach instinctively.

"We have to be doubly cautious," Erik said. "You will take no risks."

"I think just about everything is a risk at this point," Marguerite said. She sighed again. "Oh, I wish this was a less inopportune moment, and a simpler decision to make."

Erik frowned, inwardly seething. "I suppose she ought to have written sooner to ask you if there was a more _convenient_ time for her to die!"

"Erik, please," she said nervously, not a little astonished. "You misunderstand me…_again_. I was speaking more of Solange's illness and my—" She pressed her lips together, realizing that whatever she tried to say in this particular thread of conversation would be too much. Instead, she shrugged. "It seems now or never."

She waited for Erik to speak, but he only stared out the window. She did not want to sound nonchalant about the death of her husband's old friend—could Mme Giry be called a friend? Marguerite was not ignorant of the fact that this was yet another reminder of the distant, painful past for him. A past, incidentally, she had no part in, no matter how much she might wish it otherwise. Thinking back, she realized it had been ten years since that series of events that would affect her life, though she was never a direct participant. If she went to Paris with him, she would feel alienated, isolated from her husband, through no one's fault. But still, if he wanted her to come…

She waited a little longer, knowing he was in the deepest of thought, debating with himself over their options. He was silent for such a long time, she finally decided to make that meal she had meant to cook a while ago. She had barely started a fire in the stove before she felt him enter the room. When she turned around, he approached her, looking very grave.

"Marguerite," he said, saying her name like a caress as he reached out and gently grasped her arms. "It is your body. What do you believe you are capable of doing?"

She smiled, touched by his naked concern, knowing also he must be hating to have to submit to someone else's knowledge. Only dire, irregular circumstances such as these would lead him to that kind of surrender.

"I could stand days, even weeks, I believe, in Paris," she said._Physically, at least_. The smile fell from her lips. "As long as we may be concealed. A child is difficult to hide, but I'm sure we can make do."

Her brow wrinkled as she kept thinking. "Will it really be that dangerous, though? It's been over four years since we left, and…" Her smile came back. "I am utterly forgettable. As long as we exercise sensible caution, I think we will be just fine." She could see in his eyes that he was yet to be completely convinced, so she encircled him with her arms.

"You have not yet mentioned _your _ties to the city," Erik said.

She pulled away to look into his face, alarm written all over her own. "Should I?"

He lifted his eyebrows slightly. "Surely you haven't forgotten what you left behind."

"The entire point of leaving Paris _was_ to forget."

"And you have no intention of seeking out any old acquaintances who may have been worried or at least curious when you disappeared four years ago?"

"Erik, I was suspected of murder. I'm hardly going to march into the city like Napoleon ready for battle, or to announce my return. I'm not the Prodigal Son."

"Marguerite, I know you must have been eaten alive with curiosity all this time." He grinned slightly. "You can't pretend you haven't wanted to know what's been going on in Paris. Old friends…parents…the city in general?"

"Even if that were true, what of it?" She pretended to be amused, but inside her stomach was whirling as she wondered what Erik was up to. Her carefree air was false, and he knew it. "We're only going to see Mme Giry…aren't we?"

"Of course," he said. Looking more serious again, he reached out to cup her face. "I won't let anything happen to you. This is not a pleasure trip for either of us, you know."

"So we _are _going," she said nervously, reaching up to grasp his wrists. "The three of us."

"Think of what an experience it will be for Solange." He sighed and kissed her forehead. "Two days, and we'll leave. I have every confidence she will be fit for the journey. It is _your_ physical state I am more worried about at this point."

"The train?" she asked. "Do you think it's worth the risk?"

"Never. We'll take the horses and cart. Speed be damned, I won't risk being in such close quarters as a locomotive with someone who may know you…or me."

Marguerite swallowed and nodded, hoping desperately they would never come across the Vicomtess de Chagny in Paris.

"And e have another life to be responsible for, Erik. We can't just protect each other anymore. Whatever happens in Paris, whoever we may meet, or risk meeting, we have to think about Solange firstly. I'm sure there's not nearly as much risk in going back as we—I—may fear, but I wouldn't be nearly so worried if we weren't also responsible for her."

"Listen to me." Erik clasped her shoulders. "You and Solange are my entire world. I won't let anything happen to you." He pulled her close, relieved when he felt her begin to melt against him. "You know," he whispered in her ear, "what I can do to anyone who dares to threaten my world."

Instead of pulling away in shock, she returned the embrace more tightly.

"I have Mlle Lambert's address in Paris," she said. "Shall I write and ask if we may intrude upon her hospitality for a short while?"

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**A/N: I can't lie: I love reading reviews.**


	28. Into the Fire

**A/N: You might not be happy with me at the end of the chapter, but I had to cut it off at _some_ point to keep it a decent length! Plus, I really wanted to update.**

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"Mama, look!" Solange stretched her little arm to point toward some great building as they rattled down one of Paris' main thoroughfares. 

Marguerite reached out and covered Solange's hand with her own, gently pulling it back into the cab. "Stay inside, _petit_."

No one in the street was to see them. They had left their horses and cart at a livery stable at the very edge of the city, and hired a hansom cab so they would be less obvious traveling around. Once inside the city, both Marguerite and Erik had become especially cautious.

"I _am _inside," the child said sulkily.

"Even your arm, Solange," Erik spoke up. "Your mother wants to be sure you're safe."

"But I want to _see_ everything," she said.

Marguerite sighed. "Then look! But stay"—for a second time, she grabbed Solange's hand from reaching out the window—"_inside!_"

"Mama!"

"Solange," Erik said, his voice full of stern warning, "listen to her."

But instead of staring out the window again, Solange sat back, looking sullen and refusing to glance outside at all.

"Where _is_ my cheerful little darling?" Marguerite asked her. She moved her hand to stroke Solange's hair, but the girl stubbornly cringed away from the touch. Marguerite sighed. "You behaved so wonderfully the entire way here."

"She's tired," Erik said.

"So I see. As we all are, I'm sure." Marguerite bit her lip as Solange inched away from her. "Where are we going first? I don't think you told me."

"You wrote to that woman, didn't you?"

"Her name is Mlle Lambert, Erik. And yes, I did. I sent it as quickly as I could, but there wasn't enough time for her to write back. And it's been three years—what if she isn't even in Paris anymore?"

"My thoughts exactly," Erik said. "We'll go to a hotel where it should be safe…if it's still there. It isn't far from the Girys' flat."

"Can we _please_ call on Mlle Lambert first?" She grimaced in disgust as soon as the words were out of her mouth. Fatigue and boredom from the journey had made them all irritable, herself most of all, and she was thinking only of that. She had momentarily forgotten why they were there in the first place. "I'm sorry. We already delayed several days to get here. Of course you'll want to see Mme Giry immediately."

"Don't start being penitent," Erik said. "We'll go there first, if you wish."

"What if—"

"No, no, I insist." He stopped the driver to give him the address, and at the next intersection the carriage changed direction. In a few more blocks, they were riding through an upper middle-class neighborhood, with townhouses that must have been newly built when Mlle Lambert and Nadir returned to Paris together three years ago. Marguerite found herself wondering where _that woman_ had lived before establishing herself in this part.

"How lovely," she said. "She must live very comfortably here indeed."

To both Marguerite and Erik's silent relief, the driver stopped in front of a townhouse that was neither the humblest in the neighborhood, nor the most affluent. It seemed they would not draw too much attention from neighbors, though the buildings were close together. Simple but well-tended flowers bloomed in the windows and on either side of the steps to the front door. The driver announced this as their destination, and he alighted onto the sidewalk to help them out. He was about to remove their luggage when Erik instructed him to wait, in case the house's resident was unavailable.

Though it was early summer and the days were very warm, Erik kept as much of himself covered as possible with the cloak and hood, and his mask firmly fixed in place. With their frequent, surreptitious glances up and down the street, Marguerite could not blame the driver for being bewildered and slightly suspicious. He tried well to hide it; no doubt he had carted about many a stranger person in this city.

"Where are we?" Solange asked, finally coming out of the carriage after some coaxing. "Is this where Papa's friend lives?"

"Not quite," Marguerite said, taking her hand to keep her in place. It would not do to have her become overexcited and dash away from them.

"Not _that_ friend, at any rate," Erik said dryly. It was his turn to receive a sharp glance.

"We're visiting a lady who helped take care of you when you were a baby," Marguerite explained to her daughter. "She came back here a long time ago. She would love to see how much you've grown since the last time she saw you."

"Papa, why are you wearing your cloak like that?" Solange asked, her voice sounding alarmingly loud. "Aren't you warm?"

"He doesn't want Mlle Lambert to see him yet," Marguerite lied. "We're surprising her. It's our little secret, Solange, and we must be very quiet when we go into the house."

"But I thought—"

Solange was interrupted when a crisply dressed young maid answered their knock. She was obviously startled by Erik's attire.

"Good afternoon," Marguerite said quickly. "Does Mlle Paige Lambert still live here? I'm…we're old friends of hers."

"_Oui, madame_," the girl said, blinking and recovering herself in time to give them an abrupt curtsey. "She is home. If you'd wait in the drawing room for just a moment, I'll fetch her."

"Thank you very much."

They walked through an entryway and past a staircase, into the drawing room. Like the house's exterior, it was comfortable and elegant. Erik stood in the darkest corner of the room, away from windows and doors. While Solange stared at everything around her, Marguerite kept a solid grasp of her hand while glancing over the several bookshelves built into one wall. She turned around when the door opened again and they heard a female gasp.

"Can it be?"

Marguerite smiled broadly. The woman standing in the doorway would have smiled back, but her mouth was slightly opened, and her eyes widely so.

"It _is _you!" Paige Lambert gasped.

"Mlle Lambert, how are you this afternoon?" Marguerite asked.

"Paige, if you please," she said, rushing forward. "We're old friends, you and I." She embraced Marguerite tightly and kissed her cheek before turning her attention to the child. "Look at this darling little girl of yours. She's grown so much! _Bonjour_, Solange."

"She's sometimes shy with strangers," Marguerite said as Solange took a step back, grasping her mother's skirt with one hand. She was looking at Paige with an uncanny skepticism. "Or exceedingly suspicious." Marguerite cleared her throat and gestured to the most shadowy corner. "You remember my husband, Erik, of course."

Paige did a poor job of concealing her unease at seeing the man who had been quite harsh both in her presence and behind her back, but at least she made _some _kind of effort. Erik returned the nod with no more warmth than it was given, and appeared very relieved when Solange left her mother's side to stand next to him.

Paige recovered herself nicely when she looked at Marguerite again. "Have you no bags or luggage of any kind?" She looked around the room before gesturing to the entryway, indicating she had seen none there. "You know you must stay here, if you will be in the city for any length of time."

"We certainly cannot intrude if it is any inconvenience to you," Marguerite said.

The older woman squared her shoulders and lifted her chin ever so slightly. "It is of no inconvenience whatsoever. My brother and his family come on occasion, and of course I have friends who gather every so often. But other than that, I am usually quite alone in this house, and your company would be"—she glanced cautiously at Erik for half a second—"very much welcome indeed."

Frowning, Erik took a few steps from his dim corner, and spoke up for the first time since entering the house. "Nadir is not here?"

Marguerite hid a smile as Paige blushed a little.

"He… comes and goes from the city." She narrowed her eyes, and Marguerite was startled at this little demonstration of hostility. Paige had never been on friendly terms with Erik, but Marguerite wondered what he could have done in five minutes that would create such resentment toward him.

"Where is he now?" Erik persisted.

Paige looked away. "I don't know," she said quietly. "We've decided it's best that he not tell me where he goes when he leaves. It's safer on his part, and easier for me."

"Why should that be so?"

Marguerite clenched her eyes shut in annoyance. Why was Erik so fiercely curious, and so harsh toward Paige? It sounded odd, indeed, what she had said about Nadir's comings and goings, but honestly! Erik was being quite rude.

Jaw clenched, Paige turned and looked Erik right in his eyes. "It is easier because, if I am asked, I can honestly say I don't know where he is."

"That being said, I wonder who _wants_ to know?"

Paige pressed her lips together. "That is no business of yours, _monsieur_. I would ask you not to mention it again."

Erik opened his mouth to refuse her the courtesy, but Marguerite stepped forward and placed her hand on his arm. "If we are going to stay here," she said, "I suppose we shouldn't keep the driver waiting any longer. Paige, why don't you show Solange and myself to your guest room, while Erik brings in our luggage." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Erik stare at her moodily, but she refused to look at him.

"Very well," Paige said. "Follow me, then. Solange will of course have her own room, unless you'd rather have her with you." She hesitantly spoke to Erik. "I'll send the butler out to help you, _monsieur_." With that, she hurried out of the room, with Marguerite stepping twice as quickly, Solange in tow, to keep up with her.

The sizeable spare bedroom was a lovely décor of gold and blue. It was sparsely furnished with all the bedroom necessities, but every piece was of the finest quality. Marguerite smiled as she looked around, realizing that it had been a very long time since she had the pleasure of using things that were so _new_. They certainly did not live in squalor, but this house was going to be an enjoyable change for the length of their stay. Solange seemed to share the opinion, looking pleased as she stepped up to a large, sparkling mirror to stare at herself.

"Will this do for you, do you think?" Paige asked.

"Absolutely," Marguerite said brightly. In a lower, confidential tone, she added, "And since this is very new and different for Solange, it might be better if she stayed in here with us."

"I'll have another little bed made up for her right away," Paige said. "There's more than enough space in this room, I'm sure." Both women turned at the sound of Erik bringing up the valises—all three, and his violin case.

Paige looked questioningly at Marguerite. "Do you not intend to stay long? I thought your letter had said…" She left the sentence hanging, realizing a little too late that it must have been a sensitive situation for Erik. Marguerite _had _mentioned in the letter that it was a longtime friend of his who was ailing critically.

Marguerite shrugged. "I have no idea how long we will be staying. I packed as little as possible so that we may pick up and go quickly…if necessary."

Though she was obviously curious, Paige said nothing further about it. Deep in conversation, none of the adults noticed Solange quietly exploring the room. Peeking under the bed on the side opposite of the others, she reached in and pulled out a pink-and-green hatbox. Both ribbon and lid were quickly removed, and she lifted up a large, intricately trimmed hat and plopped it on her head.

"Mama, look at me!" she chirped.

"Oh, Solange," Marguerite said, laughing, "that's far too big for you! You mustn't play with other peoples' things. Put it back, now."

"Let her wear it around for a bit," Paige said. "She's not hurting anything. Besides, I haven't worn that one for the longest time, and I probably never will again. It's no more flattering on my head than it is on hers!" She glanced between Marguerite and Erik. "Shall we have some tea? Another refreshment, perhaps? It's growing quite warm outside these days."

"Thank you," Marguerite said, "but…"

"We have to leave," Erik said bluntly.

"Yes, it appears we've dawdled too long already." She spoke to Paige while watching Solange admire herself in the mirror again. "Could your maid possibly watch over her while we're gone? I'm afraid a child like her will be _too _lively a visitor for the poor woman."

"I understand," Paige said, "but I'll watch over her myself. She's a lovely little thing, and I want us to be reacquainted. You and I shall do the same later, I hope."

Marguerite felt Erik's hand on her elbow and knew she had to speak quickly. "Indeed. That would be wonderful of you, if you don't mind. She'll listen to just about anything you read to her. Do you have a piano? She's quite a prod—_Erik!_" She jerked her arm away from him, but he grasped it again, more firmly this time.

"I've waited long enough through all this insipid dialogue," Erik hissed. To Paige, he said, "She is not to leave this house," before practically dragging Marguerite from the room, down the stairs, and out of the house to hail another carriage.

"Erik, stop! You're being abominably rude." She distanced herself with another yank, and stood with her fists on her hips. "I know you're weary of travel and you don't particularly _like_ Paige Lambert, but for heaven's sake, you have to at least treat her like a human being!"

She felt _slightly_ guilty for scolding him, though she knew he deserved it. Still, she remembered they had been quite delayed in setting out for—and reaching—Paris. Erik had to be in a hurry by this time to see Mme Giry and break through the barriers of the initial visit. He was hurting, of course; he must have been feeling it acutely, this impending death of a person who had meant so much to him. No wonder he was erratic and lashing out.

"_Bon dieu_," he grumbled, "don't lecture me!" A hansom cab finally stopped in front of them, and he opened the door hastily. "Get in."

Marguerite had to bite her tongue as she obeyed, again reminding herself of the circumstances. When they were settled in and on their way to quite a different neighborhood, she took a deep breath and turned to her husband. He was hunched over as if trying to shrivel up and disappear.

"I didn't mean to be quite that harsh," Marguerite said, trying to keep her voice steady and patient. "I know you're suffering right now, and to do so here is…" She swallowed and reached over to lay her hand on his arm. "I know it's difficult, my love." He turned his face away when she touched him, and her heart sank a little. She took another breath. "Don't bury it, Erik. You know what you're feeling is…is normal…is _human_."

Still Erik refused to speak, and Marguerite finally resigned herself to the silence. She looked in the other direction, out the window at the people as they rattled along. There was no one on the sidewalks she recognized. She was intensely grateful for that.

The risk of seeing someone she knew became even less as they crossed another main street and the buildings became shabbier. It was sad to see that an illustrious ballet instructor such as Mme Giry had been reduced to an apartment in one of the poorest sections of Paris. Marguerite's heart twisted when she remembered that it was her own father who had first fired the woman when he took over the _Opera Populaire_. Had he discovered, then, that Mme Luvier was paying her secretly to help her? Had he made certain Mme Giry was never to enter his theater again? Marguerite felt angrier and angrier toward her father, more than she had felt in the longest time.

_I shall not see him_, she told herself. _Even if we were to stay in Paris for a year, I would not see him_. _I refuse to seek him out_. There were plenty of things she did not want to do, now that they were here. For a while on their journey, she had thought only of seeing Mme Giry for the last time, and Mlle Lambert. She desperately hoped Erik would not want to revisit his old "home" in the theater. She only then realized it was possible he might try to do so. How was that to be kept a secret?

Feeling an anxious fluttering in her heart, Marguerite cast him a brief sideways glance. Was he regretting his decision to marry her and leave Paris? She wondered if he ever longed for his old life again. He had told her it was always his wish to live like any other man. Was it still true? If she were dead…Erik said himself he would suffer unendurably. But what if the Vicomte de Chagny was somehow killed as well? What then?

Marguerite felt it like a physical pain, but she knew the answer.

_I only hope he would grieve me for a little while, at least, and not neglect Solange_.

She sucked in her breath when she realized tears had collected in the corners of her eyes. How ridiculous! There was absolutely no reason for these irrational tears and morbid thoughts. It wasn't happening, and the likelihood of _any_ such thing happening was very small indeed. Once more she looked at Erik, who was staring out the other window. She wanted desperately to throw her arms around him and bury her face in his lapel. At the same time, she wondered if he was still angry with her.

_This is all your fault_, she thought, looking down at her stomach and directing her opinion at the baby growing inside. _You're going to make me fat_. _Haven't you done enough already? Do you have to affect my mind, as well, and make me think all sorts of crazy things?_ She smiled, feeling a little better, though it was all meant in jest. How had she started down the path to those terribly morbid thoughts, anyway?

"Here it is," Erik said, and she remembered.

His voice was low, possessing an inflection Marguerite could not quite comprehend. They had stopped in front of a boarding house that seemed to be crumbling at the edges. Neighboring buildings consisted of a pub to one side, and a pawnshop on the other. The people moving along the street were all the very embodiments of despair. The sight of it all—and the smell—made her shiver. Thank God they had not brought Solange this first visit, if indeed they would at all.

"Did she tell you which room she is in?" Marguerite whispered as Erik helped her out of the carriage. She kept a firm grip on his hand, refusing to let go even when she was firmly on the ground. He understood the gesture, and pulled the hood back over his head with his other hand.

"The very back of the hall on the second floor," he said. He lowered his head to get a better look at her face. "You're pale. Do you feel unwell?"

"I'm only with child, Erik, that's all," she lied, trying to smile. He looked dissatisfied, but did not press further. Now that they were finally here, there was no time to waste in any kind of arguing.

There was hardly anyone around to notice them coming in, and no wonder. It was dim inside, and stuffy. Though it was late afternoon, all the windows were shut. The floor needed a thorough scrubbing; the windows were so grimy they were struggling to let in any light at all. A few knobs were barely attached to their doors, and though Erik and Marguerite tried to be quiet as they moved around, the floorboards creaked so loudly that it was a wonder anyone _slept _here at all. They saw not another soul, and so found the room without any interference or assistance.

Erik knocked on the door and threw back his hood. Marguerite held her breath.

The doorknob rattled, the hinges creaked, and finally the door opened to reveal one of the most beautiful young women Marguerite thought she had ever seen. For a split second, the woman stood straight, her shoulders back. There was a brave expression fixed on her finely sculpted features, her large blue eyes, grim mouth, and firm jaw. It melted away in an instant when she saw Erik, replaced by a look that belonged to a girl ten years younger—terrified and fascinated.

"My dear," Erik said to Marguerite, "I'd like you to meet Mme Giry's daughter, Meg."

* * *

**A/N: I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Don't hate me for cutting it off here. It's late, and I'm tired!**


	29. The Knell of Parting Day

**A/N: Whew! This chapter was draining to write. Don't worry, no one dies. But it's very long and involved, so…um…yeah, enjoy.**

* * *

Meg Giry had grown up very well in ten years; Erik could not help but notice. She had always been afraid of him, and that did not seem to have changed. He found it so amusing. She was trying to be stanch and direct, like her mother. She must have tried to prepare herself for this moment, of voluntarily opening the door to the Opera Ghost and allowing him to see her mother in a weakened, vulnerable state. Erik just knew it.

"Mlle Giry," he said, "this is my wife, Mme du Flueve."

A darting glance of those blue eyes from Erik to Marguerite and back again told him enough. She had matured, yes, but still…some things had not quite changed. Behind the façade of age, Erik clearly saw the little ballerina—gossiping, snooping around the theater just to scare herself even more, nearly fainting when she actually came across proof of her little stories, and listening with rapt attention to Christine Daae when she spoke of her Angel of Music. Meg Giry _had _shown promise. He remembered, and hoped, for Mme Giry's sake, that little Meg would make something of herself—or at least become the woman her mother was.

Two seconds of silence felt like half a day. Finally Marguerite spoke.

"How do you do, Mlle Giry," she whispered. "I'm very glad to meet you."

She did not _look _very glad. Erik felt a twinge of remorse, knowing she had to be feeling terribly uncomfortable, and knowing what it was that made her so. They might as well have been standing in front of Christine herself. In an act of reassurance, he placed his hand on her lower back. When he felt her relax, his guilt increased—the opposite of his intention.

"Where is she?" he asked Meg, who cringed visibly at his speaking directly to her again.

"Back here." She stepped away from the door to let them in. That was when Erik and Marguerite realized the little apartment only had two rooms to speak of, and both very tiny and as unlit and shabby as the rest of the boarding house. Erik followed Meg, with Marguerite trailing close behind him. They were certainly a cheerless party.

Erik had prepared himself to view just about any kind of malady. He had seen plenty in his time—illnesses all over the world, the results of his Persian tortures, not to mention looking in the mirror at his own horrific face once in a while. When he saw Mme Antoinette Giry as a withered old woman, he kept his own face stony. Her skin was sallow, her cheeks sunken, and her entire form took up far too little space on the bed. Her hands were spotted and wrinkled, and her hair had become very white. Her eyes were closed, the lids looking as though they only covered empty sockets. The sight was pathetic, and shattered every memory of her he possessed.

"_Bon dieu_," Marguerite murmured, and crossed herself.

Meg approached her mother's bedside and lightly brushed her fingers against one of her hands. "Mama," she whispered, "he's here."

The eyelids fluttered a moment before opening, revealing eyes that were bright and alert. Marguerite took a step back, startled. Erik fought even harder to control his expression. Seeing such consciousness shining out of a weakening body was disconcerting, if not utterly repulsive.

Her eyes swept the ceiling a moment, blinking, and then she turned her head slightly, and her gaze came to rest on him. "Erik," she said.

"Good afternoon," he said.

"You got the letter, I see." She sighed. "I had not expected to see you so soon, if you were going to come at all."

Was she fishing for pity? It was not like her.

Suddenly he realized there was very little for him to say. "Marguerite is here, too," he said. He glanced at the two other women in the room. "My wife, that is."

"So I see." She lifted her eyebrows a little as she looked at Marguerite. "Is he taking care of you, my dear?"

Marguerite made a brave attempt at a smile. "I would say it's the other way around, _madame_," she said in a shaky voice. After that, no one spoke a word for several moments.

Mme Giry slowly sat up in bed. "What are you all staring at? I'm not so _very_ close to death, you know. It's not as bad as it looks."

Of course, Erik thought, he should have known she would be like this. He had prepared himself to witness a raving lunatic, barely able to speak or even think—a woman completely different from the one he had known. He thought perhaps Meg had written the letter hoping that he could employ a medicinal miracle to save her mother. It was not so, Erik realized. It had only been his own pride that wanted to be called to Paris for some noble, life-saving purpose. Inside, she was the same as she had always been, with a sickly exterior. Why, then, had she asked him to come see her?

Mme Giry had been watching Marguerite for a few moments. "You are looking very well indeed."

"Thank you," Marguerite said, a flush coming over her face. Erik frowned. Had Mme Giry noticed, and guessed already?

"Was your journey tolerable?" the older woman asked. Of all the things to be talking about at a time like this! Erik gritted his teeth, frustrated. She was the one who had wanted to speak to him, who had asked him to come. What was she doing conducting small talk with his wife? He glanced at Meg; she looked close to fresh tears, but was putting up a brave front.

"It was quite long, I confess," Marguerite said. "Our little girl, Solange, was well-behaved, but not very patient by the time we reached the city."

Meg uttered an audible gasp when Marguerite mentioned a child. Unconsciously, Erik's upper lip curled in disgust at her. Did she still harbor such childish prejudices against him? Did she think him incapable of _any_ human action, feeling, or _right?_ She could hardly believe he was married, that much had been obvious. Perhaps it was a laughable idea, but it was none of her concern. Surely, then, she could not accept that he could father a child.

"You have a daughter?" Mme Giry said, her voice not quite strong enough to demonstrate any great astonishment, though her eyes betrayed a merry twinkle. "She came to Paris with you? Where is she now?"

"She's in the home of my friend, Mlle Lambert, where we are staying."

"I see. Yes, you wouldn't wish a child to be exposed to a place of gloom such as this. How old is she? She must be very young still. And good-natured, of course, if she is Erik's daughter." From her little smile, Erik knew that last remark _had _to be facetious.

"She's about three-and-a-half years now," Marguerite said. "She is a dear girl. She'll be smarter than me before she's five. She gets that from her father." She smiled lovingly at Erik. "And she has his eyes."

"Indeed." Mme Giry cleared her throat and looked at him. "Well, Erik, I suppose you're wondering why I asked you to come all this way to Paris to see me before I leave this earth. I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed. It's nothing but the last requests and final advice of an absurd old woman, really."

"Mama, please," Meg spoke up. "You know you aren't that old."

"But my health is failing, and when that happens, age doesn't matter. Death can claim anyone at anytime, you know. But you're still too young to appreciate that fact. Certainly I _feel _I have some time left in me, though not as much as I would like." She turned back to Erik as she gingerly changed her position to lie on her back. "Yes, _Monsieur le Fantôme_, I have some things I would say to you."

Without a word to her, Erik turned to his wife. "Marguerite, go into the other room with Mlle Giry and wait for me there." He did not want her to stay and hear whatever was spoken, not in her condition. She already had to endure a journey in the dogcart the past two days, and he could tell she was tired. His efforts did not seem appreciated, though, and she only scowled at him, speaking before he could cut her off.

"Forgive my disrespect, Erik, but I don't understand why I'm being excluded."

He came closer to her, lowering his voice so only she could hear him. "I'm looking out for you. I don't know what she has to say, but if there's _any _chance it will upset you and in _any _way threaten your health, _I don't want you to hear it_. Trust me in this."

From the searching look in her eyes, he could tell she was trying to read his. Finally she just nodded and followed Meg into the apartment's only other room. As soon as the door was closed, Erik turned around to face the bed once more. Mme Giry was staring at him with an almost accusatory look.

"She's _enceinte_," she said. "Why in heaven's name did she come all this way with you?"

So she _had _been able to tell. "Is that why you had your daughter write to ask me to come?" Erik asked impatiently. "To tell me my wife is pregnant?"

"I can see this is not something you wish to discuss with me," she said, lifting a hand to rub her eyes. "But you ought to indulge me, don't you think? I have no great amount of time left to live, and you're being quite rude."

"I had not expected you to still be so difficult," he snapped.

"That makes two of us," Giry said, trying again to sit up. When she finally succeeded, she groaned and said, "I get so restless. Dying does not become me, I'm afraid. I rather wish I could have gone mad before my body started to decay. To be aware of such physical shortcomings…it is intolerable."

She looked at him, her eyes resting deliberately on his mask. "Though perhaps I have little right to complain." She smirked. "You, however, still have some semblance of youth, and a brilliant mind." Her eyes moved from his mask to his graying temples. "The youth, from what I can tell, will be gone soon."

"Is this all you wanted to say?" he asked, further nettled. "Because if so, then any sympathy you'd care to receive from me has quite disappeared, and I will have wasted my time in coming!"

"Calm yourself, Erik," she said. "I'm too old to care what you think, sympathy or not, and too sick to worry what you'll do to me if I make you angry." She took another deep breath, one that seemed to shake her lungs. "I do have serious things to say."

"Such as?"

"As to the tasks you delegated to me before leaving Paris…when was it? Four years ago? Anyway, the publisher buying your work…they want to know who their secret composer is."

Alarmed, his heartbeat sped up a little. He took a few hasty steps closer to her. "They can't know!"

"Yes, Erik, we established that a long time ago. I told them it was the work of my late husband." When he closed his eyes and sighed, she added, "Oh, hush. It worked well enough. But you know I've sent them all in these past few years. I would ask you what you're going to do about money, but your accounts are all in order, and you'll never have to worry, I daresay." She cleared her throat. "I know a young man who is quite brilliant at such financial affairs, and I have left everything in his hands. I know you can trust him. I will leave you his name and address if you so desire."

Erik was weighed down with his guilt. It had been a long time since he had felt this way, especially about someone other than Marguerite. Mme Giry had done so much for him all this time. "I thank you," he said. "All is well. I've never been extremely concerned about my financial freedom, so long as I…could count on you for help."

"Yes, blackmail is certainly a lucrative trade, isn't it?"

He narrowed his eyes, determined to remain calm. "You've taken care of everything," he said, still trying to be kind to her, although she galled him fiercely.

"Well, I tried." With another heavy sigh, Mme Giry leaned further back into the pillow.

"I told you to take your payment out of my accounts," Erik said, sounding sincerely concerned, and more so than he had cared to reveal. "Why are you living here? Why didn't you put yourself in a better neighborhood, with a good doctor, so you could have some kind of comfort?"

"It wasn't my place to take so much, Erik," she said. She smiled mischievously. "Besides, I took enough for a holiday to Rome, to see Meg dance. It was well over a year ago, as I recall."

"You should have stayed there with her."

"Who would take care of things for you here?"

Why did she do this for him? He had never stopped to consider it, and the question entered his head so suddenly that it troubled him. She had just always been there, it seems. Even when he thought back to the theater's opening, to his retreat to the bowels of the _Opera Populaire_, to his earliest hauntings, his obsession with Christine…there was barely a moment that was not in some way connected to Mme Antoinette Giry.

"I'd find someone else," he said. "You should have written, you should have said _something_."

"You couldn't trust anyone else to do everything," she said. "This much I know. I've always cared for you, God only knows why. Maybe I always wanted a son, maybe a younger brother, maybe I was missing my husband so much that I wanted to take care of some kind of man. Oh, don't give me that look! I think it was compassion, and respect, and a desire to see you somehow…_complete_."

She rolled her shoulders in a feeble shrug. "It doesn't matter now. Everything I did for you wasn't strictly ethical, or maybe it didn't turn out for the best. At any rate, it's done with, and if I had to do it over again, I wouldn't refuse to help you a second time."

In a rare gesture of warmth, she stretched out her hand and beckoned him to come closer. When he did, she lifted up her head, speaking as though they were being spied on.

"God doesn't make mistakes," she said. "That includes you."

Taken completely aback yet again, Erik stared at her, blinking a few times, frozen in place. In the years he had known her, Mme Giry had never said anything like this. He had heard it enough times from Marguerite that he could safely ignore it. This woman, almost his slave, somehow his friend, was just as sorely mistaken, but just as fervent. He realized that, just as he did not deserve Marguerite and the love she gave and the vague _normalcy_ he was able to maintain, he also did not deserve Mme Giry's aid and concern from all the years past.

And he was realizing too late.

"Erik," she said, bringing his thoughts back aground. "Be good to her. You've gone through a terrible amount of grief to have the life you have now. For heaven's sake, _appreciate it_. Don't waste it. Don't _treat_ her like your second choice."

He stood up straighter and looked firmly down at her. "I love her."

She nodded weakly. "You better hope to God she knows it."

Looking away, he felt the anger rising again inside him, but realized she had not spoken one false word the entire time he was there. He turned back to her and saw that her eyes were closed. For a moment, panic rose in his chest, but then she spoke.

"I'm very tired now, Erik…I've said all I can. Tell Meg to come back in here, would you please?"

He bent down and gently grasped her hand, almost nothing but sagging skin and brittle bones.

"I'll come back," he said. "I promise."

A soft smile curled her lips. "It was good to see you."

* * *

After a few minutes, there was nothing left for Marguerite to look at. The fireplace was filthy with soot, and the threadbare settee was dusty. She could almost see the floorboards through the little rug, and there was not much to view through the window. Meg seemed disinclined to talk, but Marguerite thought she might scream if they passed another minute in this awkward silence. 

"I've heard you are very much admired in Rome, Mlle Giry," she finally said. Her words sounded false and metallic. At the same time, she struggled to hear what was being said in the other room, but to no avail.

"I was," Meg said, obviously distracted. "But my mother's health has called me back to Paris. I don't know if I should ever return to the stage."

"Oh, but surely she would want you to—"

"Mme du Flueve," Meg interrupted, "please don't feel you have to make conversation with me. I think we are both quite uncomfortable enough as it is."

Marguerite found herself quite startled. This was certainly not the cowering child she had witnessed a few minutes ago, in front of her husband. Erik was right; she did still harbor a deep fear of him. With Marguerite herself, however, the dancer seemed to have little timidity.

"I'm sorry if I make you uncomfortable," Marguerite said. "I don't…that is, I…" She sighed and gave up. Perhaps Mlle Giry was right, and conversation was best left untried.

There was silence for a few minutes, before she felt the familiar nausea come over her. _Please, not now!_ She grasped her chair's armrests with white knuckles, and clenched her eyes shut, willing the feeling to pass. Breathing through her nose, she dared not open her mouth. She had not felt as sick with this child as she had with Solange, and she was intensely grateful. The timing, however, was much less discreet. After a few moments, the feeling was quelled, and her whole body went slack with relief.

"Excuse me, _madame_, are you quite well?"

Marguerite had gone pale, but the blood rushed back to her face when she realized Meg had watched the entire ordeal. "I'm all right," she said. "It's just the occasional queasiness, and to be expected, I'm afraid."

"Did the journey make you ill?"

Marguerite bit her lip. "No, I'm…going to have a baby."

From the fearful, appalled expressions Meg Giry had thrown at Erik at finding out he already had one daughter, it did not surprise Marguerite that she was disgusted to know his wife was carrying another. However, Meg's reaction was quite severe. She shot out of her chair and stormed to the window, breathing heavily and wrapping her arms around herself. Leaning against the windowpane, she pressed a trembling hand to her temple. At last, she turned back to Marguerite, her blue eyes chilling.

"_Why?_" she hissed. "How could you do such a thing?"

"I—"

Meg pointed toward the bedroom door, her whisper loud and harsh. "_Do you know what he is?_"

"A man," Marguerite said, to which Meg laughed callously.

"I beg to differ, _madame_," she said. "You weren't there, of course. _I_ was. I saw everything. Joseph Buquet's death—suicide, they said, which was laughable! The stupid managers just didn't want to admit there was something going on that they couldn't control. He killed Ubaldo Piangi, La Carlotta's lover, and it ended her career. She couldn't go on afterwards. He coerced my mother into doing his bidding, didn't you know that?"

"Meg," Marguerite said, standing up, unsure what else to say. The dancer's switch from recoiling child to enraged woman rivaled even Erik's tempers. Was he so very disgusting to her? Had she bottled up these feelings inside for a long time?

"Even _she _wouldn't listen to me," Meg said, ignoring Marguerite. "My own mother wouldn't listen to me when I asked her to stop. She said he needed her…he was her one link to the world." She closed her eyes tightly, silent, and then uttered a heart-wrenching sob.

"And then…and then Christine. Oh, _mon dieu_, my best friend…my sister. I saw what it was doing to her, what _he_ was doing, with his perverse obsession. I don't know how he cast his evil spells upon her, but I saw how it tore her apart inside. She didn't dare to speak of it to me, except at the beginning, when it was beautiful and mysterious to her. But he kidnapped her, and she was never the same. There were times when I thought she was truly mad—when I thought she was in love with him. But then she'd come to me, and wouldn't say anything, and she was so scared…"

Meg pressed her fists to her forehead and wept. Finally, she found a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. "All this I've kept inside me," she rasped, answering Marguerite's silent question. "Mama wouldn't listen. Christine wouldn't tell me much, at the end. I tried, before her wedding, to ask her about it, but she just cried and said she wanted to forget all about it." Sniffling, she added, "I thought we were rid of him for good. And now my mother's dying, and…" She glared at Marguerite. "I thought _I _had been able to forget it, up until now."

"You're still afraid of him," Marguerite said.

"You are a terrible fool if you aren't!" Meg snapped.

Marguerite began to feel close to tears herself. "I'm not afraid of him, I love him."

Meg looked as though she was barely suppressing her own nausea. "An even greater crime. I cannot comprehend how you could do such a thing."

Marguerite felt her temper rising. "Because I took the effort to see him as a man, with all his perfections and faults, rather than condemning him." Meg turned away, revolted, and Marguerite stepped closer to her, just to make sure she heard what she said. "I know what he's done, Meg Giry. I don't ignore it, but I've forgiven it. If you had listened to your mother, you would know that there's much more to him than all that. Erik is a remarkable man…and he loves me."

Meg looked at her again, but this time, with powerful sympathy.

"He doesn't love you," she said, shaking her head. "I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, but after an obsession such as the one he had with Christine…a man cannot love again. Mark my words, he still wants her. I hope he appreciates the love you have for him, but I am certain he does not return it."

Stricken, Marguerite stared at her. "Stop," she managed to say. "Don't say another word."

"Leave him," Meg said, her eyes now wide and urgent. "Escape as soon as you can. I can't believe he has changed so much. There's no altering a man's nature, especially one as mad as he is. _Madame_, he set the theater on fire! He would have killed the Vicomte de Chagny. You don't know what my childhood nightmares were like. He—"

"Not another word!" Shaking, Marguerite stepped away from her, placing her hands over her stomach. _I have to think of the baby, and I mustn't be upset_. _This isn't true_. _Erik loves me, and he would never hurt me, ever!_ _What happened to him back then is all over now_. Out loud, she said, "He has me now. If he didn't want me, he would never have left Paris."

Her resentment spent, Meg shrugged. "What I say is for your own good. Whatever you choose to do, let it be on your own head."

"_Merci_."

Marguerite's heart jumped into her throat when the door opened and Erik stepped through. Closing her eyes, she sank back down to the chair, turning her face away to avoid his gaze.

"She's almost asleep," he said to Meg, who had reverted back to her recoiling stance. "She wanted you to go back in to her."

The two women did not speak another word to each other. Marguerite sat and listened to Meg's dainty footsteps hurry from the room, and then Erik's stride approaching her. He placed a hand on her shoulder, and she fought back tears. _I will not tell him what she said, no, I cannot!_

"I promised her I would come back later," he murmured. "I'm not sure when. You may come or decline as you wish."

Marguerite just nodded, and he tucked a finger under her chin and forced him to look at her.

"I'm sorry this has upset you," he said, clearly unsettled himself. "When we get back, you're going straight to bed."

"I was feeling sick to my stomach," she said. "Perhaps it would do me good to lie down."

They showed themselves out of the boarding house. Once again, there was no one around. Marguerite wondered if Mme Giry was its only occupant. But then she caught the sound of a door closing on the first floor. She wanted to ask Erik what had passed between him and Mme Giry, but he would only share if he wanted. She would do better not to ask.

"I've no doubt little Meg Giry had only unflattering things to say about me," he spoke up when they were finally in a hansom and headed back to Paige Lambert's house. "I confess, I enjoyed spooking the _corps du ballet_ once in a while. They made such easy targets."

His nonchalant tone made her stomach turn with the secret she kept inside, but she was quite resolved. She could not tell him everything Meg had said. What good would that do?


	30. Grief forgets to groan, and love to weep

**A/N: It feels like a Friday night already, but alas, it is not. Oh, well. I updated rather quickly this time, are you proud of me? I don't have a huge paper assignment yet, that's one reason. This chapter is not _quite_ as draining as the last, but it is a bit…odd. I don't know how else to put it. I suppose you will all have to judge for yourselves.**

* * *

"I don't know what else she would have done if I didn't have a piano," Paige said good-naturedly when she and Marguerite had settled in front of the parlor fireplace. "She was certainly delightful to listen to, but I think she quite wore herself out." She cocked her head and gazed at the younger woman, who said nothing, but only stared into the flames with a faraway look. "Are you quite well, Marguerite?"

She fluttered her eyelids as if coming from a deep slumber. "I'm all right. I'm just…tired from the journey, and my stomach is displeased right now."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I forgot how you must be feeling." Once they were back at the house, Marguerite had told Paige about the new baby on the way. "Perhaps you should go sleep for the night."

"No, I'm not going to bed yet," Marguerite said, her voice startlingly firm. "Not when I don't know where Erik is." She smiled and soothed her voice. "Is that all Solange did while we were gone—play the piano?"

"She was unduly upset when I asked her if she could sing at the same time," Paige said, her eyes widening at the memory. "I didn't dare ask why. I just let it go at that."

Marguerite chewed her lip. "Erik makes her sing against her will. He expects quite a bit from her still, despite her age. She's got a pleasant enough voice for one so young, but she never spoke a word until a few months ago. He's made her work very hard at it ever since."

"She truly didn't talk at all? Do you know why?"

"I asked her once," Marguerite said, sighing, "but she behaved as though she didn't understand what I was talking about. I know she did, but I didn't press the matter." Both women looked up at the sound of footsteps in the entryway. In a moment, Erik came into the room. "Erik!" Marguerite gasped. "Where have you been?"

"Out," he said, not at all acknowledging Paige's existence, keeping his eyes on his wife. "And I've just looked in on Solange."

He cleared his throat, and for one crazy moment, Marguerite actually believed he was going to tell her what had transpired between him and Mme Giry. As if he would say so in front of Paige Lambert! Marguerite wasn't even sure _she _would get to hear about that scene in the inner sanctum.

"I though that tomorrow we would take her on a tour of Paris. Safely, of course." Meaning they would not parade about the city like the fabulously wealthy, who _wished _to be seen.

Marguerite smiled widely, the muscles in her face stretching further than she remembered them doing in a long time. "That would be lovely! Only…you don't want to go see Mme Giry again tomorrow? Surely we didn't come all the way just for that one visit."

Erik waved his hand carelessly, though she knew he must have been feeling much less casual. "She will have rest tomorrow. I've paid the hospital to send a nurse to see to her needs." He glanced at Paige for the briefest moment possible, as though offended that she dared to overhear, in her own home, this confession of generosity. In response, Paige stood up and spoke to Marguerite.

"I had better see that my cook knows there will be two more for breakfast tomorrow." She left before Marguerite thought to tell her that Erik did not count as a person when it came to mealtimes. No matter; she knew it was just a polite ploy to leave the room.

When she was gone, Erik obviously felt able to speak more freely, and sat down next to Marguerite on the settee to do so. "She cannot be moved to better quarters, but I can make sure she is comfortable where she is."

She grinned and laid a hand on his arm. "I think it's wonderful of you. She'll certainly appreciate it, I'm sure."

"It's the least I can do," he said, swallowing. His voice became husky. "Marguerite, I am forever…beholden to her. I didn't always treat her decently, but she…she never stopped helping me. There were times when I could tell she feared me—for a while, at any rate—but she never _treated_ me like a monster. It was always with the utmost respect. She did everything she could."

"I know," Marguerite whispered. She searched his eyes. _Let me please find something there to prove Meg's words weren't true!_

"Seeing her again, and Meg," Erik continued, looking away, "and being back in Paris…everything came back so vividly." For a moment, Marguerite felt her chest fill with dread—like cold, heavy water in her lungs—and wondered what he meant. He looked back at her, and leaned a little closer, grasping her hand in his. "I remembered how much I owe to you, as well."

The words were such a surprise, she had no idea how to respond. His mouth tipped wryly, and she realized he must have been amused at the shocked, bemused expression on her face.

"You owe me nothing," she finally said.

"I know you made sacrifices to stay with me," he said, tracing the side of her face with one finger. "You gave up a completely different life, and you gave my own back to me. I should be thanking you every day of my life."

"Thank God, too," she said. "I'm not the only one who loves you." His lips covering hers kept her from speaking another word.

Pulling back, he said, "Someday I'll make it all up to you."

She smiled once more, reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck. "You're on your way."

* * *

"Do you need anything else, Mama?"

Mme Giry looked at her daughter questioningly as she took away the tray. "You've hardly said a word since yesterday, Meg. Did something happen that I don't know about?"

The dancer felt a chill slide up her spine. "Nothing happened. I just…it was a surprise to see _him_, that's all."

"You wrote to them for me, to ask them to come."

She did not want to be reminded of that. "Yes, I know," she whispered.

Mme Giry lifted one eyebrow, an expression well known by Meg and every girl in the _corps du ballet _at the _Opera Populaire_. "Well then?"

She avoided her mother's eyes. "You know I don't trust him."

"I also know I could never you believe he would never harm either you or me," she said, sounding thoroughly defeated, "so why should I try?" When her daughter just shrugged, she sighed. "I hope you were at least civil to them both."

Meg felt the heat rise in her face. "I tried." She knew her mother would likely not be pleased to hear what she had said to Erik's wife the day before. To still be fond of him, to work for him, after all he had done, was insupportable!

"Don't you give me that, Marguerite Giry. What did you say to her while Erik and I were speaking?"

"I don't remember…I was rather upset. Did you know that woman is pregnant again?"

Mme Giry's eyes lit up, and it made Meg feel ill to see it. "And what is wrong with that? They're husband and wife, it is perfectly natural. They already have one child."

Meg sighed wearily. "You don't understand, Mama! How could he have…how could she let…?" Her throat burning, she swallowed with difficulty, and left the room with the tray without another word. Her head in a muddle, she sat down at the table, her face in her hands, sighing deeply.

When someone knocked at the door, she jumped up from the table, her heart pounding. "Please, God, not again," she whispered. She opened the door, but then the room was pierced with a happy cry as she beheld her best friend, almost attacking her with a grateful embrace.

"Christine, you have no idea how _happy_ I am to see you here!" she gasped. Catching sight of the Vicomte over her friend's shoulder, she stepped back with an embarrassed grin. "I'm sorry, I got carried away." She grasped the other woman's hands. "Oh, it was _so good _of you both to come! And so early in the morning."

It was Raoul who spoke up first, "She could hardly sleep last night, she was so anxious."

"I was!" Christine concurred. "I'm sorry, it's been at least a week, hasn't it, since we were last here?" She lowered her voice. "How is she?"

"Her body is weak," Meg said, "but her spirit is strong as ever. Truthfully, I don't know what to make of it. She _will _be glad to see you, though." Her hold on Christine's hands tightened, and she, too, dropped her tone. "I have something that I must speak to you about, once you've seen Mama."

Christine's brow furrowed in concern. "Can you not tell me now?"

Meg shook her head, the muscles in her neck tightening, her eyes nearly wild. "I'm sorry, Christine, I can't! It has to wait. Please, go in and see her. I'll make tea." Once the Vicomte and Vicomtess de Chagny were out of sight, she bustled about doing just that, clearing off the tray her mother had just used, and filling it with tea things.

The room's atmosphere had an obvious weight to it, but everyone seemed to be in good spirits. Raoul was the one exception—with no experience on the stage, he was having more difficulty putting on a cheerful air while a good friend was ailing. Meg set down the tray on a side table. Her mother was satisfied, and her friends would serve themselves, but she knew no one would really partake of any of it.

"Why did you not bring the children?" Mme Giry was asking. "I would love to have seen them again."

"Armande is busy with his tutor today," Christine said, "and poor little Hélène has a cold, so she's at home, torturing her nanny, I'm sure. She's just a little _devil_ when she's sick!"

"A pity," Mme Giry said.

"We'll be sure to bring him another time," Raoul said. "He always did like you, you know."

Mme Giry just smiled, and silence hung in the room like a fog for some time. Meg felt as though she would burst. It was too much. She watched Christine's face, which very gradually lost its carefree demeanor, to be replaced by honest grief. Tears trickled down her cheeks, until it seemed that she, too, could no longer restrain her emotion.

"Oh, dear, dear Mme Giry!" she gasped, burying her face in the blanket at the older woman's side. "What am I going to do without you? I can barely remember a time when you weren't there for me."

"My dear child," she said, patting Christine's dark hair, "you must not be troubled. My time is coming. That's just the way of life, isn't it?" She glanced up at Meg, who was barely restraining her own tears.

"Please tell me what we can do," Christine said, lifting her head to wipe her face. "You _must _let us help you somehow. I know you wouldn't let us before, but I cannot bear it if you let us just stand back and…and watch you suffer! Raoul will see to anything, won't you? We can get the best care for you, the best…_anything!_" She turned her pleading, damp brown eyes to her husband, who nodded eagerly.

"I don't want you spending any money or going through any trouble for my sake. You would only be postponing the inevitable, and when has that done anybody any good?"

"You're the only mother I've ever known. I can't let you leave me now."

"You are married, with a family of your own, safe and secure," Mme Giry said, smiling. "What better time would there be for me to leave you?"

"Raoul, please tell her we have to do something to help her. Talk some sense into her!" Christine stood up, pressing a handkerchief to her mouth, stifling her sobs. Distressed herself, Meg could only move to stand next to her best friend and rest her head on her lace-covered shoulder.

The room was filled with only sniffles and coughs before there was another knock at the door. It came as such a surprise that Meg let out a little shriek. Her mother looked at her with a face fill of horror, both of them thinking the same thing.

"I'll…I'll go see who it is, then," Meg stammered, feeling as though she would be sick right there in front of everyone. It was like a nightmare, walking through the doorway into the next room, grasping the doorknob and beginning to turn it…

_If it's them again, I'll make them go away_._ I'll tell them she died already_. No, he would want to see the body, she was sure. She would say her mother was sleeping, and not to be disturbed. She looked down at her hand; it was shaking so hard, the doorknob was rattling a little. Finally, she took a deep breath and flung open the door.

Instead of Erik or his wife, an older woman clothed in a habit stood in front of her, clutching a bag, her fist raised to knock again.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I…" Meg said, gasping. "I was…I expected to see someone else."

"_Bonjour_," the woman said crisply. She lifted her squared chin and raised her eyebrows. "I'm Sister Frevisse, from Saint Damien Hospital. I understand there is a woman here in need of tending and prayer."

Without thinking, Meg stepped back to allow the woman to come in. "Yes, but…We didn't send for anyone."

"Is M. du Fleuve here?"

Hearing the name didn't make speech any easier for Meg. "He…no, he's not. He's only a friend of my mother's. It is she who's ill. Did he…did he send you here?"

"A gentleman by that name paid the hospital to send a nurse to this address to administer the best care possible to an ailing woman. As it so happened, that nurse is myself. Will you take me to her?"

There seemed to be nothing else for Meg to do but show her into the next room, where Christine appeared much calmer.

"Mama," she said, "This is Sister Frevisse. She was…That is, someone sent her to take care of you for a while."

" 'As long as necessary' were the words, I believe, _mademoiselle_," the nurse said, setting her bag down. "How do you do, Mme Giry?" She gave a brisk nod to Christine and Raoul, who looked on with interest.

"Christine," Mme Giry said, her voice full of warning. "After all that fuss, you had someone coming all along! You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you know. I told you not to go out of your way in the least. Lord knows coming here is enough."

"We didn't hire her!" Christine gasped. "I promise you, we knew nothing of this. It must be thanks to Meg. We wanted to help, but you are so adamant in refusing us."

The dancer was quick to jump to her own defense when her mother turned her narrowed eyes in her direction. "It was not I, Mama. You know I don't mind caring for you on my own."

"A M. du Fleuve hired me, _madame_," Sister Frevisse clarified. "He wanted everything to be very discreet, but he was less concerned with anonymity, so I don't feel ashamed to reveal his name to you."

"Who is this gentleman?" Raoul asked with a twinkle in his blue eyes. "A secret admirer, Mme Giry?"

"Hardly," the older woman said, her voice growing distant. She and Meg looked at each other, both feeling helpless in their own separate ways. How else was this to be explained but by the blunt truth? Though Meg _had_ told Christine she had something to tell her, she was not feeling quite up to it at the moment. She had rather hoped Raoul would not be present for such things. Strangely enough, Sister Frevisse made it easier.

"I should like to have a few moments alone with Mme Giry, if you'll excuse me. It will only be a short while, and then you may all visit again." She turned to her patient with a businesslike air, but she possessed the gentlest touch.

One by one, Meg, Christine, and Raoul exited the room, as though they were already leaving a funeral. The air was now buzzing with tension _and _curiosity, which Christine wasted little time in expressing.

"Are you _certain_ you had nothing to do with this, Meg?" she asked.

"I did _nothing!_"

"Who is M. du Fleuve? If you don't tell me, I shall be forced to assume any number of shocking possibilities." She waited, pouting slightly, while Meg looked down at her shoes, biting her lip and plucking at a part of her skirt. She had retained that habit from childhood, when she was constantly scolded for nervously twisting her tutu right before a performance.

Finally, exasperated, Christine turned to her husband. "Raoul, love, perhaps you're making her uncomfortable. Be a darling and give us a few minutes of privacy."

"If you insist." Raoul gave a little bow before leaving through the main door, out into the corridor. There was no way now for Meg to avoid telling Christine anything.

The Vicomtess stepped closer to her friend, smiling mischievously. "Tell me, Meg. Is he an admirer of yours? There can be no secrets between friends like us."

Meg took a deep breath and forced her red-rimmed blue eyes to meet Christine's wide, brown ones. "M. du Fleuve is a false name." She swallowed and closed her eyes before saying, "His real name is _Monsieur le Fantôme de l'opéra!_"

For a little while, Meg wondered if her friend had heard her, or understood the implications of what she had said. Christine's face did not change; her expression was frozen, her smile fixed in place. Meg noticed the emptiness in her eyes, and realized she must have been in shock and utterly speechless. Meg herself had said all she could. She just clenched her teeth, held her breath, and waited for Christine to speak.

When she did move her lips, no sound came out. Her breathing slightly labored, she tried again. "He's been here?" she rasped.

Grimacing, Meg nodded. "Yesterday."

"All this time…he's been alive…and in Paris." Christine looked away from Meg, her voice weak with an otherworldly quality.

Meg felt increasingly guilty. "On the contrary, he's been living out in the country somewhere." She took another breath. "With his wife." She cried out in surprise when Christine grasped her arms suddenly.

"I'm sorry," Christine apologized, almost immediately releasing her again. "His wife? What does she look like?"

_Why are you so curious?_ Meg wondered, terrified for her friend, though she felt convicted to answer. "She's shorter than either of us, with dark hair, and big gray eyes. I think he called her 'Marguerite' at one point. Isn't that awful?" She tried to smirk, but only looked sick.

Christine's shoulders sagged a little, and she closed her eyes and sighed. "Thank God."

"_What?_" Meg gasped, utterly astounded. "Don't you realize she must be mad? To _marry_ that…that man? What if it was some trap of his? What if she was forced?"

Christine shook her head, smiling vaguely. "I've met her, Meg. A few years ago, at…I don't remember what it was, some ball or another. It was the last time I saw Erik. She _loves _him. She confessed it to me then, and I thought there was no hope for her. Oh, thank God! If only he has come to love her as well." She raised her eyebrows slightly. "Did she _look _like a prisoner."

Meg shook her head sheepishly. "I admit, she looks more normal than I would have expected of someone…well, of someone who might love him." She put her hand on Christine's arm. "You are not jealous of her?"

Christine actually laughed, though it sounded forced. "Of course not! That's ludicrous. I have Raoul, and two beautiful children—everything I could possibly want." Her expression sobered, and she spoke in earnest. "I'm happy for him, Meg. No matter what happened or what he did, I still wished he would find love, some kind of—_substitute_, I suppose —for me. It hurt, you know, to leave him. I knew what I had to do, and I knew that I would be killing someone, in some way, however I chose. But he let me go, in the end. He set me free. Would you not have done the same? Oh no, Meg, I certainly would not wish to have her place, and I daresay she would be loath to have mine."

Meg shook her head slowly, looking stunned. "I cannot believe you are this calm, Christine, not even after all this time. How can you be, knowing he has been here?"

Just then, Sister Frevisse stuck her head out of the doorway and told them they could come back in if they so wished. Meg nodded and said they would be only another moment.

"At least he is taking care of your mother," Christine said when the door was safely closed once more.

"You don't…You can't possibly want to _see him_, can you?"

An unreadable emotion flashed across Christine's face before she could subdue it. "You must get such dangerous notions out of your head, Meg. You know that would be insanity." Then she gasped.

"But we are forgetting Raoul! He's standing out in the corridor, all alone, the poor thing." She went across the room and placed her hand on the doorknob, but before opening it, turned back to her friend. In that instant, the dancer saw in Christine's eyes all the shock and dread and confusion she knew _had _to be there somewhere.

"Not a word to him, Meg," she hissed. "Raoul must never know he was here!"

"I know."

"I love Raoul," she continued. "I do. But I am very much obliged to Erik. Nothing has ever allowed me to completely forget that I tore his heart out and left him a broken, miserable man. I don't know if I could ever explain in a way you'd understand. But I'm happy for _her_, Meg, because she loves him. If he never learned to reciprocate it, he is a great fool."

With that, she lifted a finger to her lips, and opened the door to usher Raoul back inside. As they all made their way back into the room with Mme Giry and her new nurse, Meg still marveled at Christine's serenity, sincerely hoping it was real.


	31. A heart at peace gives life to the body

**A/N: Amazing! It was just about a year ago that I published "A Piercing Light of Hope" on this website for the very first time. I can't believe the story is still going on! I do have another announcement: I had divine inspiration for an original story of my own, and I think I'm going to start "publishing" it in installments on fictionpress . com (without the spaces) under the same penname. So if you're interested, I encourage you to check it out (I just joined the website, so I can't post things until February 2).**

**Oh, and I'm sorry this chapter is another short-ish one. I wanted to get it up soon. That also means please forgive me for any stupid typos! I was so excited about finishing this chapter that I may have missed something.**

Disclaimer: I don't own the Phantom of the Opera, OKAY?

* * *

It seemed that every time she laughed, Marguerite felt a twinge of guilt for it. Was it right of her to be actually enjoying herself for a little while, all the time knowing that a woman they cared for was even now approaching death? Of course, Solange didn't know. Marguerite wasn't sure how—or rather, _if_—she would tell her. She did not want her daughter to reach a full understanding of death when she was not even four years old. So she smiled and pointed out significant buildings as their carriage rattled down the street with the rest of the traffic. 

It was all much less painful than she had expected. Marguerite could no longer deny to herself that she was at least _curious_ about her parents and old friends. Seeing them was impossible, of course. There was no telling how much had been forgiven, forgotten, or even _known _when it came to Marcel's death, Henri discovering her marriage to Erik, and her own sudden disappearance. True enough, she had been hardly famous in Paris—her father was, somewhat, but Marguerite herself had possessed little renown. It was obvious Paris had grown in the past four years; perhaps the city _had _forgotten her completely. Except for a few, the Phantom of the Opera had long ago faded into myth. Marguerite smiled to herself. Was Erik now more anonymous than she?

"How does it look?" he asked her quietly, startling her with the closeness of his voice.

"The same," she said. "Different, but…the same." She turned back to the window. "I'm not sure how I feel about it all yet." When she felt his hand on her shoulder, she looked at him again.

"I know what you mean," he said, almost sadly.

"Look!" Solange said, pointing. "Look at that!"

The hansom was passing a row of uniformed Parisian schoolgirls, following their stern mistress like ducklings. Their cheeks were pink with the scrubbing they had received that morning, and each head of hair was brushed to shining. Marguerite's heart sank when she realized it was Sunday; she felt a powerful desire to enter her church. She looked away when they drove past it, imagining the reprimand she would receive from the priest if she introduced herself and he realized how long she had been away from any spiritual place.

"They're so pretty." Solange said about the girls. "Where are they going?"

"I think they're leaving mass," Marguerite said. "It's Sunday."

"Oh." Solange had heard all about such things from her mother, who included scripture and prayers in her home learning—along with stitching, all of which Erik refused to teach. "Who is that lady with them?"

"Their schoolmistress, I imagine," Marguerite said. "Solange, you'll probably look just like that, if you go to a school away from home when you're old enough." Erik snorted in derision, but she ignored him.

After a few minutes, Solange chattering away, Marguerite realized Erik had grown more silent than even he had been that day. His posture was stiff, and she could see the muscles taut in his neck. His enigmatic face led her to lean out the window and look up the street. Of course, how could she have failed to realize that they were traveling down a very familiar boulevard…and very soon would be passing the _Opera Populaire_.

With a shiver, she remembered their last moments inside that building, deep in the cellars, on the shore of the unseen lake. The body of Henri's guard would still be rotting in whatever dank, godforsaken place Erik had stashed it. What had Mme Giry left behind in Erik's old home? Marguerite had lost track of the things she sent, not remembering what remained. Against her will and her own better judgment, Marguerite found herself gripped with a morbid curiosity to go inside and sneak around. Like a criminal returning to the scene of his transgression…

"What place is _that?_" Solange inevitably asked. Marguerite looked at Erik, prompting him to answer instead of herself. He smiled, and spoke with a calm she would have never expected.

"That, _petit ange_, is the _Opera Populaire_. I met your mama there."

"_Really?_" Solange gasped and turned to Marguerite, her eyes enormous. "Mama, did you and Papa really meet inside that big building?"

"Yes," Marguerite said, her voice no more than a whisper.

"I helped build it a long time ago," Erik went on. "I made myself a little house underneath it, and I lived there for years. I would go up and watch the operas every night from way above the stage. I saw them building all the props, and I saw the orchestra rehearse. Hundreds of people came every night to watch the dancers, and hear the singers. I could see them all, from my hiding places and secret passageways."

Marguerite watched him tell the story to their daughter, leaving out the unpleasant parts of his history, while embellishing the beauty. How long would it be before Solange demanded to go inside it, to see an opera, to experience it for herself?

"Mama, were you singing in an opera when Papa met you?" Solange asked.

The question caught Marguerite off-guard, though it was asked innocently enough. She looked at Erik for help, but he did not come to her aid. He watched her almost as expectantly as Solange, wondering what she would say.

"No, Solange, I met your papa when I was exploring the opera house." She looked away from them to gaze out the window. The _Opera Populaire_ was behind them now, disappearing into the distance. Was her father still the proprietor? "I can't sing well enough to be in an opera."

"He could teach you, couldn't he?" Solange asked. "Papa, you want me to sing, can't you teach Mama, too? Mama has a pretty voice."

"Not that pretty," Marguerite said. "Your papa can teach an angel to sing, but I haven't got the natural talent for it." She met Erik's eyes again; as she had expected, his face revealed no amusement from her remark.

Solange looked at him in awe. "Papa, did you really teach an _angel_ to sing?"

Erik narrowed his eyes at Marguerite, who tried discreetly to wipe a tear from her eye. "I did," he said. "But she wasted her talent. She preferred to stay here on earth rather than sing in heaven and bring joy to mankind."

"Oh," Solange said.

Her little face seemed perplexed, and no wonder. Marguerite herself was feeling a little out of sorts. Absentmindedly, she placed her hand over her abdomen, allowing her thoughts to drift as she stared out the window. Her mind barely registered the conversation Solange was having with her father as the carriage kept on. When they rounded a corner, a fountain and an expanse of trees and grass caught her eye.

"We should stop here!" Marguerite exclaimed, pointing. "The _Parc de Monceaux_. I would dearly love to get out of this thing and walk for a little while."

"I'm sure you would," Erik said. However, he made no argument, and in a few moments they were outside and strolling under the shade of several tall trees. Overly cautious as usual, Erik kept the cowl of his cloak over his head completely. Marguerite wondered if that drew as much attention as his mask, but she did not dare to mention it, seeing as how she was already saying far too much today.

"I used to come here with Charlotte," she murmured to Erik, keeping an eye on Solange as she skipped in the grass a short distance ahead of them. "That first summer I was here. And Estelle. They were my best friends before…before everything happened. I wonder whatever happened to them." She cleared her throat and tried to lower her voice even further before saying, "Estelle was the one who first introduced me to the Vicomtess de Chagny."

Erik responded by grasping her arm and planting his feet, keeping her from taking another step on her own.

_Oh, damn,_ Marguerite thought, realizing she had been a fool once again.

"If you have so many regrets," Erik hissed, "you could have been kind enough to mention them before last night!"

"Erik, _please_," she said. "I'm sorry I mentioned it."

"Why did you?"

Taking a deep breath, Marguerite realized that she could no longer be emotional and cryptic. If she was going to keep it inside herself, she would make herself ill, or simply burst. She had to think about the baby! She had to tell him what had transpired with Meg while he had been visiting Mme Giry.

"I didn't tell you what happened while you and Mme Giry were talking," she said.

Erik snorted. "What did that ridiculous little ballerina have to say?"

Marguerite lifted her eyebrows. "Now, that is a strange thing to hear from a man who yesterday said she had a lot of promise."

"Yes, she did. As I understand, she did something about it—her fame in Rome was growing when her mother's health took a turn for the worse. What of it?"

"It…well, that wasn't really the point." Marguerite felt a second of panic when realized Solange was not within her range of vision. Then she saw her peek out from behind a tree, giggling, and she felt a wave of relief.

"What I was trying to say is…oh, Erik, she absolutely hates you. I suppose you knew that already. You confessed to me yourself that you enjoyed terrorizing those poor girls. But Meg is still extremely loyal to Christine."

"They were best friends. They may still be. It's to be expected."

"Let me finish!"

Erik waved a hand, bestowing a mocking bow. "By all means, fair _madame_." When he straightened again, though, he added, "Solange, stay where we can see you!" After scattering a few pigeons, the child walked back to them sulkily.

"As I was saying," Marguerite continued quietly, "Meg gave me some advice." She paused for dramatic effect. It worked.

"_And?_"

She took another breath. "Leave you. For my own good, I ought to leave you. Would you like to know why?" Even though the hood shadowed his eyes, Marguerite could have sworn she saw a reddish glow emanating from them. His mouth she could see fairly well—his teeth were clenched. He did not answer her, but of course she knew well enough to continue.

"She said any love I have for you would not, and cannot, be returned on your part. It was almost impossible for her to believe that a woman could actually _want_ to bear your children. And she…She believes you have not subdued your desire for Christine Daae. I believe 'perverse obsession' was the phrase she used. And you wish to work your—what was it? Oh, yes —your 'evil spells' to once again attempt to make her yours."

She paused for a second time and let her words hang in the air. "Erik…Meg did not tell me anything that I have not myself wondered at one time or another."

Her words, though not really meant to be hurtful, had reached their target with astounding success. Breathing ragged, Erik took a step toward her. Marguerite's heart beat faster when she saw his hands were shaking. Before she knew what was happening, he grasped her arms and pulled her closer. Ignoring the shock exploding in her eyes, he exerted his anger. Would he never escape his past? Was he to be constantly punished for it?

"What did I tell you last night?" he asked, his voice dangerously close to uncontrolled. "What do you think that meant? If you need to hear 'I love you' in those exact words, then _tell me_ you need to hear it!" He shook her once, still holding her tightly in his grip. "Would I have moved out to the godforsaken countryside, away from _my _opera house, if I didn't mean them? If I am still so obsessed with her, why did I bring you with me to Paris, when I could have sought her out in my spare time? I fought for your life at every opportunity, and I never purposely endangered you. If I didn't love you, do you think I would allow it? Do you think we would be standing under a bloody tree in a park in Paris, watching our daughter play? Tell me, Marguerite, I am _dying to know!_"

She couldn't speak. If he had not already been holding her arms, she probably would have temporarily lost the use of her legs, and fallen to the ground. Tears had begun to roll profusely down her face, and she was stifling her sobs with every ounce of strength she had. When his anger had been vented, Erik groaned and held her against his chest. Her arms went around him with surprising force.

"I'm sorry," he said. "You…you didn't…I'm sorry."

"I don't hear it enough," she said into his cloak. "Forgive me, Erik, but I…after a few minutes with her, of listening to her, I didn't know what to think. If you could have only heard her, you wouldn't blame me. She was so angry…so afraid. It was enough to make me suspect." She freed one hand to wipe her eyes. "No, I must confess, I've always wondered…always…"

He cupped her face, wiping the rest of her tears with his thumbs. "You can stop wondering."

"I know what you said last night, Erik, and it was gratefully heard, but I couldn't just forget what she said, either."

She reached up to grip his wrist with one hand, her wet gray eyes pleading with him to understand. With the other hand, she slipped the cowl back from his head so she could see the unmasked part of his face. His cheeks, eyes, and forehead were lined with concern and anxiety.

"Hush," he said. "You've told me all you need to. Have I told you all you needed to hear?" When she nodded, he leaned forward and touched his forehead to hers before kissing her deeply.

Marguerite felt the strain of the past 24 hours—or rather, the past few months—melt away as she grasped Erik's sleeves, not wanting to let go, ever. Her senses spun with the taste of his mouth, the touch of his hands, and her mind was shutting down. When he broke the kiss, it was like he was roughly waking her from a dream. When she looked up, he was smiling sadly at her.

"Well," Marguerite said, clearing her throat, "I do believe I've had enough fun for the day. I think it's time to go back to Paige's house and have some lunch. For Solange and me, anyway. She said it would be waiting for us, if we came back in time."

Nodding, Erik turned around and looked for Solange. She was trying to climb a low-hanging tree. Marguerite rushed over to stop her and bring her back to where they had been standing.

Heading for the park entrance, Erik leaned over and whispered to his wife, "Perhaps later, you and I could spend the evening taking in the latest opera."

Her jaw dropped. "Erik, it's been a long time, but…surely we would be noticed! How would you get tickets?"

He laughed out loud at the very idea. "Who said anything about tickets?"

As they climbed into yet another hansom cab, Marguerite's stomach clenched in apprehension and anticipation. What an exciting diversion for their return to Paris! But would it be more foolish than it was worth? She had no idea what she would do if she saw old acquaintances of hers, even if she was seeing them from fifty feet above their heads. Still, the idea did have its appeal. It would satisfy her morbid curiosity, that much was certain. By the time they reached Paige's house again, she felt quite certain she would have to agree to it—after considering it a little more, once she had eaten. After all, how much of a risk was _really _involved

Enough to make her realize she did not want to think about it.

The maid seemed more nervous than usual when they showed up at the front door. She mumbled and stammered her way through a greeting, taking Erik's cloak and the parasol Marguerite had borrowed from Paige. After telling them her mistress was in the parlor, she scurried off as though she wanted to be away from them as soon as possible. When Erik, Marguerite, and Solange entered the room, they realized what must have brought a little bit of chaos into the household.

Paige Lambert sprang to her feet as soon as they came in. At the same time rose the man who had been sitting beside her. His dark eyes flashed, and he stormed toward Erik, reaching him in a few strides. He did not seem to even notice Marguerite and Solange, so fierce was his zeal.

"Erik, what in the bloody hell are you doing in Paris!"

Erik cocked his head to the side, purposely maintaining his calm. "Good afternoon, Nadir."


	32. Wishing you were somehow near

**A/N: My apologies for taking forever with this chapter. I've been very sick, and uninspired, and busy with school and SAI. Somewhere along the way, I lost my passion for this story, but I'm determined to get it back…!**

* * *

Nadir's eyes were wide with panic, and his voice furious. 

"You can't stay here, Erik. You have to get out, _now!_"

He finally glanced at Marguerite and nodded to her ever so briefly. His expression warmed when he caught sight of Solange hiding behind her skirts. Paige only stood back, pressing her lips together anxiously. Nadir glanced back at her over his shoulder for a moment, before he went on.

"She told me why you're here—and that you've only arrived yesterday. Mme Giry is an admirable woman, Erik, I grant you, but you don't realize what danger you've gotten yourself into—and your family!"

Erik was well incensed at this point. Folding his arms across his chest, he said, "Nadir, you had damn well better tell me what this is all about!"

Nadir took a deep breath and closed his eyes to calm himself, and slowed down his speech. "There is a man in Paris, seeking information about you, particularly your current whereabouts. He tried to get it from me first, and…_that_ is why I've been in and out of the city, even going to England a few times."

The news struck Erik deeper than he would have wanted, making him impatient to hear more. "_And?_ Who is that man? How did he find you first?"

At this point, Nadir hesitated, regaining his senses as he watched Erik's face for several lengthy moments. He fully recalled to whom he was divulging this information. Marguerite well understood his uncertainty. She herself was not sure Erik should know who this overly curious man was. He might very well take drastic measures to ensure their safety. While Marguerite appreciated his efforts, she did not want him taking any more lives. Not only that, but she also remembered the child hiding behind her.

"Erik," she said surreptitiously, gesturing toward Solange. Fortunately, Paige noticed as well.

"Let me get her some lunch, shall I?" she asked, stepping forward and holding out her hands. "Come on, darling, and _Tata_ Paige will get you something to eat."

To her mother's immense relief, Solange allowed herself to be led out of the room, with a little whispered encouragement from Marguerite. She looked up in time to see Erik roll his eyes at the title Paige had given herself. The remaining three waited until Paige and Solange were out of earshot before they began to speak again.

"All right, then," Erik said smoothly. "Who is this man?"

Marguerite stepped closer, hooking her arm through his. Nadir lifted his chin slightly, but Marguerite and Erik both knew he was a little nervous. Who could help it, after all, with Erik piqued as he was?

"Paige's brother and his wife invited us to dine with them at their house one evening. Neither of us knew he would have other guests with him. Michel Lambert, her brother, is apparently very interested in becoming an investor…a patron…or _something_ at the _Opera Populaire_. So, that night, he also invited some people who had a connection to it, knowing that I did, as well."

Marguerite gasped and clenched Erik's hand. In one brief glance, he saw the color drain from her face.

"Francois Gautier?" he asked, feeling more and more of Marguerite's weight leaning against him.

Nadir shook his head. "No, not the owner. It was a younger man, someone who worked for him." He turned to Marguerite. "About _your_ age, madame."

Marguerite's brow furrowed as she tried to think of who it might be. "My father didn't have a partner. And he certainly didn't employ anyone young as myself, that I can remember—except messenger boys, perhaps."

"What was his name?" Erik asked Nadir.

"Laroche, I believe. He had a wife with him. I can't remember their given names, but I would most certainly know him if I saw him again."

"Henri Laroche?" Marguerite asked in a tiny voice. Her eyes nearly bulged out of her skull, and the muscles in her neck were strained under the skin. In the furthest corner of her vision, she saw Erik turn to look at her again, but she refused to meet his eyes. "Brown hair…and a moustache…brown eyes?"

"The very same," Nadir said, his dark brows flicking upward. "You _do _know him, then! I thought for a moment he was mad—talking about knowing who I was, and wondering where 'he' had gone. At the time, I did wonder if you knew him, _madame_."

"What did he say?" Erik asked, now gripping Marguerite's hand just as tightly in return. "What did that boy tell you?"

"He called me _the Persian_," Nadir said, "as if he knew…from long ago. He said he had heard of me through the Vicomte de Chagny. Yes, Erik, _him!_" Exhaling sharply through his nose like an agitated horse, Nadir shook his head in frustration. "You still dare to show disgust at that name, after all…?"

He glanced at Marguerite, who looked quickly away from him, and away from Erik. He still gripped her hand, but she sensed his entire body bracing itself at the sound of that name. _Forgiven, perhaps_, she thought to herself. _Not forgotten_…_never forgotten_…

Then she realized something else, and forced herself to speak up. "Erik, if Henri knows the Vicomte, that must have been how he knew where to find us!"

"What?" Nadir gasped. "He found you already?"

"No, no," Marguerite said, anxiously flapping her free hand. "Before we left the opera house for good, Henri showed up. I was still in bed, and Erik had gone out, and…" She shook her head vacantly. "He'd come to _rescue me_ from the Opera Ghost. He thought I was the prisoner, and he confessed that he'd always been in love with me somehow. But he fled when Erik came back—"

"This wouldn't be happening right now if you had let me kill him then!" Erik jerked himself away from her and took a couple steps back from his wife and Nadir. He positively trembled with rage, and could hardly maintain his self-restraint.

"Erik," Nadir said in a warning tone. All he received was a fierce, narrow-eyed glare. He switched his gaze to Marguerite, whose color had returned with vigor.

"Well, I couldn't very well foresee _this!_" she snapped at Erik. "I rather thought I was preventing a murder."

"This wouldn't be happening if I had killed the _Vicomte_, either," he grumbled. He looked up to see Marguerite staring at him, stricken. He scrunched his eyes shut as though in physical pain. "I'm sorry, Marguerite." He took another step closer and reached out to take her hand again. "I'm sorry. You remember what I said, yes?"

She nodded, her lips pursed. "I hope _you _do."

They stared defiantly at each other until Nadir cleared his throat.

"What do you propose to do?" he asked.

Erik blinked and looked at him. "Did Laroche actually reveal to you what he wanted?"

"Not explicitly, but it was quite clear that he wanted to know where you've been all this time." He lifted his shoulders and spread his hands in a gesture of helpless indecision. "How long _has _it been, Erik? Four years?"

When Marguerite and Erik both nodded, he continued. "Well, I suppose he's already searched the city by now. In fact, I'm quite surprised he hasn't interrogated Mme Giry, but perhaps Rao—er, the Vicomte and Vicomtess—had the good sense not to reveal her involvement in…any of your…affairs. It sounded as though he had questioned _them _about it a time or two. If he has any good sense of his own, he'll know not to tangle with the Phantom. Obviously, that is not the case. Perhaps he's realized by now that the world is enormous, and a man who hides in a theater for years is quite capable of disappearing elsewhere."

He sounded much calmer than when Erik and Marguerite had stepped into the room. It was their turn to be disconcerted.

"But why would he still want to know where he is?" she asked. She chewed her bottom lip as she looked sorrowfully at her husband. "Erik, I'm sorry. This is my fault. He would never have known about you if it hadn't been for me! I didn't want him to come for me, I swear. I never would have left with him. I never would have abandoned you, never considered it. I told him I was married, but he refused to understand. He thought I was hypnotized or possessed, but _he _was the one who was fixated—on _me_, of all people! And by all that is holy, I swear I didn't initiate it. Well…perhaps when I was younger…when we were new to Paris…I wanted admirers, but…that didn't last very long. Erik, you believe me, don't you?"

She clasped both hands in an entreating gesture. Both men watched the frantic woman, neither of them quite sure what to do. Finally, Erik came closer and embraced her.

"It's all right," he said. "I fully believe you."

Unseen, Nadir sidled out of the room, to avoid intruding and overseeing the intimate moment.

She groaned and leaned her head against his chest. "So what are we going to do now? Should we leave, and abandon Mme Giry? You told her you'd come back again."

"I can't leave now," he said. "I have to do what I promised, even if it's the very last thing I do in my life."

She nodded. "I know. And I wish I could go with you, and take Solange to see her, but…perhaps that wouldn't be safe?"

"Yes, that might be less than wise. Not to mention, I'm quite sure you wouldn't want to be in the company of Meg again, would you?"

Eyes wide, Marguerite shook her head vigorously, and Erik actually chuckled. He glanced around the room, relieved to see Nadir had very tactfully excused himself.

"Henri's not going to find us, is he?" Marguerite asked.

"Of course not."

"I know he couldn't really do anything to you himself. I just wish he didn't try to play the hero. If he still believes…" She shook her head again. "I suppose this changes our plans this evening."

"I think," Erik said, taking a deep breath to cleanse his mind, "that this insolent, ridiculously foolish young man could never become so familiar with the _Opera Populaire_. I believe you could not go to the theater more safely than with me."

"As long as Nadir and Paige have nothing else to do tonight but watch over Solange."

He lifted her chin to speak directly to her face. "Trust me, they do not."

* * *

"Can you see anything?" he asked her a few hours later, as they watched the auditorium from a space they had not occupied in years.

Marguerite felt strangely juvenile, perched up there. She swallowed back a lump in her throat. This was more powerful than merely passing the opera house in a carriage out on the street. What had she been thinking when she agreed to this? What was worse…she had a perfect view of Box Five, which was occupied, just as she remembered, by her parents. In seeing them again after so long a separation, it took every piece of her self-control not to flee from Erik's side and find her way down to their seats.

Instead, she froze her vision on them, while tears burned in the back of her eyes. She felt a cold hand on her arm, and realized Erik knew what she was looking at.

"They do not deserve your forgiveness," he whispered.

That did not help at all, and she could not even respond. For all her husband's genius, eloquence often failed him.

"Can you blame me at all for being curious about them?" she asked a few minutes later. "They are my flesh and blood, after all. By now, _you _ought to understand what that connection feels like. What if Solange were to be somehow torn away from us?" May God strike her dead if she ever caused such pain to her own child! She tossed a glance at Erik, who seemed to struggle between anger and some sort of attempt at sympathy. He tightened his hold on her arm.

"You are not well tonight," he said tersely, "I can see that. Come, we'll return, and you can rest. This has been a trying day—"

"No!" she whispered, shaking him off. "I want to stay. Please, for heaven's sake, let me be absorbed into another world, and forget my own for a few hours!"

She passed her hand across her brow, finally noticing the light sheen of perspiration on her face. It was unpleasantly warm where they were sitting, half-crouched. The baby was making her uncomfortable, and she kept shifting her weight, hoping Erik would not notice her discomfort, or the exhausted droop of her eyelids. Traveling for several days, her pregnancy, the agony of listening to Meg Giry and seeing her mother ailing, and finally revealing the conversation to Erik, and the sudden knowledge that Henri still clung to the past, all created a difficult mixture to hold in Marguerite's one body and mind.

Her eyes drifted to the audience again. If she could get her mother alone…if she could somehow make her way down there amidst the crowd…

She looked down at herself. She knew she had been neglecting her appearance. Her hair was clean and styled, but there was nothing decorative about it. When was the last time she had a new dress? The one on her now was showing signs of frequent wear, and the faded fabric was just beginning to strain against the weight she had retained in the past few weeks. If anyone else she knew saw her now, they would surely laugh at her condition. Absently, she plucked at a thread hanging out of the cuff of her left sleeve. She could feel Erik staring at her.

"You're not looking anywhere right now," he said. "Tell me, how is that other world?"

In response, she choked back a sob and covered her face with her hands. She heard Erik swear very softly, and then inch closer, enclosing her in both his arms this time. His hesitation was palpable; she _had_, after all, jerked away from him the last time he touched her. Her resistance was very brief this time, and she leaned against him pitifully.

"Erik, I…I really am _not _well."

"What is it?" he asked.

She took her hands away from her face and sighed. "Do you remember what it was like when Solange was ill? And I wasn't there?"

"You needn't worry about her. She was perfectly well when we left."

"No, that's not what I mean. She loves you, Erik. You did everything you could for her, didn't you? You made her everything you could think of, and you watched over her, and gave her the best care possible." She still did not look at him, but kept her eyes directed downward. "But it wasn't enough. More than anything, she wanted her mother there with her, when she was in pain and distress, and confused."

As she turned her eyes up to meet his, she silently implored him to understand. It looked as though he did, but she said it aloud.

"I have to see her. Erik, I want to see my mother. I can't be this close, after so long, and then just leave this place without speaking to her."

It was Erik's turn to sigh. "I knew that had to be what ailed you. Everything was perfectly fine until we got here, and…" His voice trailed off.

She nodded. "I just don't know how I'll be able to get her attention."

Erik's cool hand clasped her own, and he began to stand. "Come with me. I know where you can hide, while I take care of things."

As the orchestra began the overture, Erik gently pulled her to her feet. As they crept away and down some rickety, long-unused stairs, Marguerite felt herself begin to shake with nerves. She pressed a hand to her belly.

"You'll meet your grandmother before your older sister," she murmured.


	33. No more gazing across the wasted years

**A/N: I have returned, yes! PLEASE believe me when I say I STILL have no intention of abandoning this story. But I am currently swamped with homework, term papers, exams, and non-academic commitments (and they call this spring break!). I desperately needed a sabbatical from this story, and my enthusiasm has been revived, thanks to several things. (Jane Austen and Harry Potter somehow shoved Phantom of the Opera out of my mind, but now there's room in my heart enough for all three!)**

**Regrettably, however, real life must have priority over fanfiction, and so you can expect the updates to be very slow until, oh, about May. Hopefully I will not take as long in posting my next chapter, but I might. Still, rest assured, a next chapter WILL eventually be posted!**

—**Whew!— Sorry for that too-long author's note, but I just wanted to get my message across. Many, many thanks to those who reviewed with their concern about this story! I'm glad there are people who still read it—I was beginning to worry. Sorry to make you wait; hopefully this chapter will make up for it. All right, I promise I'm done for now!**

* * *

"Stay here," Erik said, guiding her into a narrow door, following directly after. "Hide as best you can, but keep your eyes open." He was about to turn away to continue down the passage, but stopped himself when he glimpsed her damp, flushed face. 

For a moment, he thought he knew how she felt—the music coming from the auditorium was an absolute abomination. He felt as though his auditory sense had been severely violated, and not in the delicious sense of tasting forbidden fruit. It was painful, but what else was to be expected in the off-season? He should have remembered that when he saw how thin the audience was. _Ironic,_ he thought, _that the opera house went to hell once the ghost had _left _it_.

This was not the true source of Marguerite's discomfort. He did know _that_.

"You'll be all right," he said. "I'll be watching from a distance."

She nodded, looking at the floor somewhere beyond Erik's own feet. She was obviously still terrified by unfolding events. They seemed to be sinking further into her mind, overwhelming her. His eyes swept over her, and he silently, grudgingly conceded that she looked pitiful. The frantic pulse in her neck was just visible, and he impulsively pressed his lips to the delicate skin, drawing an astonished gasp from her.

"Erik," she groaned, "this is not the time." She nudged him away, receiving a pouting scowl, like that of a child thwarted in his plan for mischief.

He stared into her weary eyes, half-shut and laced with red, and felt remorse. Of course, there was a place and time for everything. There was other business at hand for now. He nodded and left her there to make his way down the ever-darkening corridor, through another side door, and up a tiny, rickety flight of stairs.

Everything came flooding back to him in a rush of smells, sounds, and even the textures that passed beneath his hands as he ran his palms over the walls and gripped the weakened banister. But he could not stop to absorb it. He had a duty to perform here, and he would see it through to completion. If Marguerite absolutely _had _to see her mother, so she would—Erik hated seeing her so miserable.

Just as in years past, he automatically ducked into even darker shadows as a few theater employees came around the corner and hurried past him, not noticing as they went along with their jobs. Watching them go, Erik decided to be more careful. Though his instincts of the past faithfully returned, it had been some time, and extra caution would never be unwarranted.

To his relief, the offensive sounds from the stage were muffled where he stood. But as Erik approached and finally reached his familiar door, the entrance to the hollow pillar behind Box Five, the sour music grew louder once more, and he grimaced. The expression turned into a smile of quiet arrogance, for his secret passages and trick doors had remained undiscovered and meaningless to everyone else who had come and gone in the _Opera Populaire_ these past years. His hand automatically found the trigger, sliding it open—though not without a little resistance from its lack of use—and he slipped through it.

Soon, he was hiding inside the column behind Marguerite's parents. He could have laughed as he listened to the opera and observed the occupants of Box Five. It was all too familiar, and so damned amusing in a way he didn't think he would ever quite conceive. In the old days, however, the performers had some quality…but he mustn't think of that at the moment. Silently, he cleared his throat, and then watched Isabelle Gautier's head turn toward the voice that whispered to her from the doorway.

"Follow me, and find what you have lost."

The woman shivered visibly, but did not stir from her seat. As Erik had hoped, no one else in the box made any sign of having heard the cryptic words. He repeated his statement, directly in Isabelle's ear. This time, she brought one gloved hand to cover her ear as though to discreetly block it out—or somehow discover its source. For a few moments, she sat uncomfortably, shifting her weight, and then Erik's heart swelled with triumph when she got to her feet and, without a word to any of her companions, went out into the dim corridor. Rapidly and silently, Erik left his post, retraced his steps, and hid behind a door to watch the woman's progress.

Slowly she moved along, nervously glancing all around her. Erik prompted her a few times with his ventriloquism—using his most beguiling tone—until she was positioned perfectly, close to the dark, narrow hallway behind which hid her daughter. Turning in her place, she suddenly stopped, staring. Erik saw Marguerite's expression from where he crouched, and it was obvious that the two women had seen each other, though they both appeared to be frozen in time.

At last, the spell was broken when Isabelle lifted a tremulous hand to her throat, her eyes widening.

"Mama," Marguerite whispered.

The older woman stepped closer to her daughter, a shadow of disbelief on her face, as though she suspected Marguerite of being a ghost. When she was close enough, Isabelle reached out a hand, her fingertips just brushed against her daughter's cheek.

"Mama, it's me. I'm really here."

Finally, a few tears escaped Isabelle's eyes and forged a path along her face. "Darling," she said, "I thought…you had died…we would never see you again." Her mouth finally smiled. "Marguerite!" She rushed to embrace her daughter, and both women shook with broken sobs that, for them, drowned the sounds of the opera seeping into the corridor.

"I've missed you, Mama," Marguerite said, wholly sincere.

Isabelle held her tightly. "My girl…I can't believe you're here, of all places. And I thought I was just imagining things…"

Erik watched from the shadows, a tiny bit of disgust slithering through his veins. It became clear just how self-absorbed he had been in keeping Marguerite so close, so exclusively. Perhaps, after today, she would find Paris more palatable. Maybe it would not be such a place of misery and fear. But no, that would not be. They had to remain in the countryside for everyone's safety—particularly little Solange, and even Nadir and Paige. What if Marguerite _did _decide she wanted to stay in the city?

_We could hide, _Erik thought. _I could be certain of that_. _Even if we never went back under the opera house, I could conceal us somewhere in Paris_. He shook his head. It would never work.

"What has brought you back?" Isabelle was asking her daughter, when the two had parted again.

Marguerite swallowed before she said, "My husband…an old friend of his is very ill and may not be long for this world. He received a letter asking for… a last goodbye, I suppose." She grasped her mother's hands quite suddenly. "Be assured, Mama, I myself am very well. I'm sorry, you must have worried all these years."

Isabelle took Marguerite's left hand in both of hers and looked at her ring. "And your husband?"

Erik felt his whole body tightening, his jaw clenched, and he leaned forward to listen.

"He, too, is well," Marguerite said, "and he's here, somewhere." She glanced around briefly. "I can't see him from here."

Isabelle frowned, turning her head to follow Marguerite's gaze. "Why does he hide himself?"

"He wanted to give us some privacy."

Isabelle lowered her voice to speak delicately, tilting her head downward. "Marguerite, he _is _real, isn't he?"

Not surprisingly, though it must have been strange to her mother, Marguerite laughed out loud at the question. In the tense, bittersweet atmosphere, it was like the ring of crystal when it is struck by silverware. For the moment, Erik could not imagine a lovelier sound.

"Oh, Mama, he certainly is real. You are not the first to ask that question, but he is very, very real." She brought her mother's hand to her broadening waist and leaned forward as if to share a great secret known by no one else in the world. "You cannot quite feel it yet, but I am carrying his child."

The hand tightened on her stomach, and Isabelle's lips trembled in amazement and awe. "My darling, nothing could have made me happier this day than to hear such news!"

Marguerite's smile widened. "Then be happy twice over. We already have a little girl, Solange. She was three years old last January." At the look in her mother's eyes, she added, with a rise of her brows, "She was conceived and born in wedlock, I assure you."

Erik could have laughed himself when Isabelle coughed awkwardly at Marguerite's audacious statement. As it was, he managed a soft snort, and since it came out in a moment of silence—both between the women and in the performance hall—it did not escape notice. Marguerite frowned into the darkness where Erik was spying before she turned back to Isabelle.

"Would you like to meet him? Erik, I mean."

"Marguerite, my son-in-law? Of _course _I want to meet him." She began to look around and crane her neck. "Where is he?"

"Mama, wait. Erm…" She raised her voice the slightest bit, to make sure Erik heard her. "There's something you must know about him first." She chewed her lower lip, feigning nervousness. "He used to perform in the theater, as an actor. He's long since left the stage—he composes music now, beautiful music—but he…he's kept a few…well…_habits _from the past, a few _eccentricities_."

Isabelle frowned, puzzled. "Really? Such as…?"

"Well…" Marguerite waved her hand nonchalantly. "He enjoys going out in disguise sometimes, and he can be a bit…_dramatic_, you know, theatrical. I suppose he just never could give it up entirely. He likes to wear a mask once in a while, such as tonight…though he's _dashingly _handsome without it. I try not to bother him about these things, he seems so amused, and it's all perfectly harmless and not at all troublesome."

"Oh," Isabelle said, clearly at a loss for words.

"Still, he's very much…a gentleman…"

Erik rolled his eyes from his hiding place, but he understood Marguerite's purpose and grudgingly resigned to play along.

"I suppose I ought to meet him, then."

"Don't be critical, Mama, please. I adore him, and…" She smiled and shrugged with the smallest possible giggle.

_He loves me too,_ Erik mentally finished the sentence for her.

"Wait for me just a moment," Marguerite said. "I'll find him and bring him here to you."

"Well, shall I go get your father?" Isabelle suggested. "He ought to be here."

Marguerite almost lost her pretense after that remark, and seemed flustered. "Erm…no. That is…Father doesn't want to see me." She grimaced, looking close to tears again.

"You are terribly mistaken. He very much wants to see you."

"I…I think it had better wait. Perhaps you might give him the news for me? We'll be in town a few more days at least, and there will be time for visiting later. This is all very…very much for me right now."

"Imagine the shock _I've _received tonight," Isabelle pointed out. She smiled comfortingly. "But of course, there is your condition to consider." She placed her hands on Marguerite's shoulders. "If that is what you prefer, tonight I shall meet this husband of yours, and tell your father later. I daresay he'll be quite disappointed that he was not a part of it."

"Somehow I doubt that," Marguerite murmured. She removed her mother's hands. "I won't be a moment."

As the two women were conversing, Erik had left his hiding place and moved to another shadowy corner just off the corridor. Marguerite found him easily enough; he allowed the candlelight to glint off his mask. As there were no other audience members wandering about at the time, it was sufficiently safe.

"I hope you heard enough," Marguerite said, approaching him.

"Yes," he said, "quite enough."

"A clever idea for last minute, don't you think?" She smiled pertly, her expression simply begging for flattery.

"Ingenious," Erik said dryly. "So I am an eccentric old thespian, am I?"

She chuckled exasperatingly. "For now. You've lived in this opera house for a number of years; I assume you know how they act both on and off the stage. Use it to your advantage."

Her mood darkened. "Just _please_ go along with it, Erik! I couldn't think of anything else at the time, and I so hate to lie. I just…" She sighed despondently, letting her words hang in the air.

Erik lightly pinched her cheek as one might a child's. "My voice must be enough to convince your mother of my acting proficiency, I daresay."

Marguerite narrowed her eyes and smirked, fingering one of the buttons in his waistcoat. "Don't be excessive, my love. The full power of your voice is for me and me alone." She bounced up on her toes and kissed his chin. "You would do well to remember." Her eye contact was meaningful before she turned to go back to where her mother was waiting.

Marguerite saw her mother's reaction to Erik before she could turn around and introduce them. Neither familiar with nor believing the Phantom of the Opera stories, and fed with a comfortable lie of Marguerite's, Isabelle's face was only filled with alarm at first, then an uneasy acceptance. The smile she formed was a most admirable attempt.

"Erik, this is my mother, Madame Isabelle Gautier," Marguerite said. "Mama, I'd like you to meet my husband…Erik…du Fleuve."

"Madame," Erik said, "how do you do." He swept his immense cloak back with one arm, extending the other hand toward Isabelle. When her gloved hand rested upon his palm, he bent over and kissed it. Every movement he made was slightly exaggerated, as though an audience of thousands was watching and he yearned for their approval, not wanting them to miss anything. Marguerite could barely conceal her laughter. "I am ex_ceed_ingly pleased and honored to be making your acquaintance at long last."

"As am I, M du Fleuve," Isabelle said, clearly intrigued and, at the same time, rather edgy. "Strange, I know so little of you. It has been a long time since I've seen my dear girl, you know."

"Of course, of course," Erik said slowly. He had altered his voice the slightest bit for the occasion, not wanting the woman to realize it was the same one that had led her to her daughter in the first place. "After so long in the city, the countryside life has suited me immensely. I may say Marguerite rather likes it, as well." He glanced tellingly at her, hoping it was lost on Isabelle. "It is sad business that has called me back to Paris." He turned back to Marguerite. "As a matter of fact, _ma cherie_, I was hoping to leave this exquisite performance early, for tomorrow promises to be rather demanding."

"I—" Marguerite began.

"You must call sometime while you're here," Isabelle interrupted, almost desperately. "Or, Marguerite, where are you staying? We might be able to come see you there, instead."

"Oh, no," Marguerite said hastily, "I don't think that would be a very good idea! Just…We have…That is, there are things to be done, you know, and…I shall see you when I can. I promise, Mama, we'll see each other again before we are gone from Paris."

"Without question," Isabelle said. She sighed in disappointment. "All right then, if you must go…" She hugged Marguerite one last time, kissing her on both cheeks. "God be with you, my darling girl." She looked up at Erik. "Take care of her, monsieur. She is precious to me. I've wanted to see her again for so long."

He only gave her one solemn nod before Isabelle hurried back, tears reappearing, to Box Five. When Erik whirled around to head in the opposite direction, toward the main entrance, the façade dissolved, to be replaced by something far less charming. In her hurry to keep up with his long stride—made more quickly in his haste to leave—Marguerite did not catch it. She only laughed a little.

"Erik, that was wonderful! You made me want to burst out laughing when I introduced you. Until I had to say goodbye to Mama, of course. But then, it shan't be long before we see her again. That all went so well, so much better than I had dared to hope.I would be heartbroken if we couldn't…Erik, what's wrong?" She had just caught the fierce anger burning in his eyes, and the tense muscles about his jaw and neck.

"The next time I am required to _perform_, you would do well to obtain my permission _first!_" he growled, practically sprinting down the sweeping marble staircase.

"Oh, Erik, now _really!_" She said, surprised at his outburst. "I told you it was all I could think of at the moment! And I wanted her to meet you. Do you realize she never has? It's been years since I saw my family, you know, andI think you're just being silly. Haven't you learned by now that not everyone hates you on sight? _Erik, please stop!_"

With this last gasp, he looked at her again and realized how ridiculous this was. "My apologies," he said, reducing his pace to a slower walk Marguerite could easily match. "But you'll forgive me for reminding you that these are the same people who refused to let you into their house when they thought you had eloped with that fool Marcel. Then they failed to defend you against his parents regarding his death."

Marguerite's shoulders sagged. "I've forgotten nothing, Erik. But you saw her. She has missed me, and I've longed to see her. She's my _mother_, Erik. She didn't know about Solange, or where I've been, or that there's another baby on the way. She should know these things. I haven't any idea what my father will say. She's to pass on the information to him, at least."

"They still do not deserve your concern!" he snapped.

"I realize it's not something you've known," she said, gritting her teeth and trying to stay calm. "But I want to set things right with my parents. If I can't rectify what has already happened, at least I can avoid burning any future bridges. I want Solange to at least know her grandparents, and for them to be aware of her existence."

Having said enough, she waited until he spoke. Fortunately, it was not much of a wait, and she was rather surprised.

"I'm sorry," Erik said tersely. "You know, I'm not a performing monkey, but…perhaps I was a little too hasty."

"Fair enough," Marguerite said, her smile warm as she linked her arm with his. "Now, please get us a hansom back to Paige's house so I don't have to walk. I tire easily these days, you know, and this evening has yielded all the excitement I'd care to take from it."

"_That _is a shame, indeed,"he said, smirking.


	34. Unchanging As The Sea

**A/N: Homework? What is that?**

**It's such a relief to be updating again! It always makes me happy. Alas, I have so much to do for school, with little more than a month left in the semester, that this _should _be the last chapter that I post for a while (although whether it actually _will be _the last for a while, that remains to be seen)!**

* * *

It was nowhere near daylight, but that meant nothing. Awake, restless, and bored, Erik leaned his forehead against the guest room window and stared out at the dark Parisian street. It was peppered with street lamps and completely empty. What was wrong with him? He was plagued by a powerful feeling of restlessness such as he had not felt for several years. It was not his usual insomnia, but he could not think what it _could _be. Was he simply on his guard because of their environment? Was it concern about Mme Giry? Somehow he knew it was neither of those things. It must have been the nasty business with Henri, the idea that he still wanted to find them. 

_But we are safe,_ Erik told himself. _Everything will be all right_. He stood back from the window, letting the gauzy curtain fall to cover the glass again, and looked down at Marguerite sleeping soundly on the bed, slightly curled. Her face wore a slight, dreamy smile, as if there was nothing wrong in her world, and she was utterly at peace. Her left hand hung over the edge of the mattress, the ring on her finger glinting in what little light there was in the room. _Strange_, Erik thought, _that a tiny, simple object could mean so much_.

From there his gaze traveled up her arm, lingering at her elbow. For the first time, he noticed how the fabric in her nightgown had been worn thin. Frowning, he glanced at the half-open wardrobe, and saw where she had hung up her and Solange's dresses. He quietly strode across the room, skirting the soft little cot where Solange was sleeping. Snatching a frock from its hook, he held it up. There were tiny holes here and there, a few threads coming out of almost every seam, spots where the fabric was almost threadbare, and places that had been stitched over several times. How long had it been since Marguerite had new clothes, and why had he not noticed before, and for so long?

Erik thought back to earlier in the evening, seeing Marguerite and her mother standing side-by-side. Isabelle never hinted how shabby her daughter was looking, though she must have noticed it. She had looked very elegant herself, of course, dressed in the latest fashion, with the most luxurious fabric, and accented with sparkling jewels. Marguerite must have felt embarrassed, but she never said a word of it. A few years ago she had worn the same stylish, extravagant clothing and going to balls and parties. Now she was dressed like a pathetic farmer's wife while her husband was absorbed in his past and his music, never noticing. Marguerite had concentrated on keeping Solange in pretty clothes—the child grew so rapidly!—and never concentrated on her own garments.

_Maybe_, Erik thought, _she's still paying penance for her past vanity_. Whatever the reason, he wished she had been a little more selfish. It was one more reason for him to feel guilty, and he _hated _that feeling. Good lord, he had to start taking better care of her! With a sigh, he put the dress back and glanced over the others; they were in similar condition. Erik made up his mind that, first thing in the morning, he would visit the Giry's place, and then come back to remedy Marguerite's wretched wardrobe. Though this decision did not remove his feeling of anxiety, it did relieve him slightly.

Crossing the room again, he paused to look down at Solange. Her black hair was strewn across the pillow, looking almost blue in the moonlight. Her expression was not quite as peaceful as her mother's; it was intense and concentrated, but fortunately not troubled. Erik could see her eyes moving rapidly beneath the lids, and he wondered what she saw in her slumber. At her age, what did she have to dream about yet?

With a shake of his head, he straightened and left the room, quietly moving down the hall to the stairs. He was freer now than he had ever been in his life, he knew, and yet he felt somehow…trapped…in this house, in this city. When he realized he was becoming resentful of Antoinette Giry, he mentally scolded himself. As if she had any power over her time of death, or could be blamed for wanting to see Erik before it took her away from this world!

He wandered into Paige's combined music room and library. After a glance at her shelves, he shook his head disdainfully and snorted at her limited, _feminine_ selection. Then he saw novels with Russian titles, an Italian copy of Dante's masterpiece, several works by Goethe, and a few collections of Spanish, English, and American poetry in their respective languages. _Must have been purchased by others who lived here before, _he thought, not wanting to give _Tata _Paige too much credit.

Erik selected one of the Russian titles, with which he was wholly unfamiliar. He opened it in the middle, glancing over a few paragraphs. Melodrama. He glanced over some of the American poetry. Pathetic. He tried yet another book—better, but he had already read it. Exhaling sharply, frustrated, he put it back and finally settled on Dante's _Inferno, Purgatorio_, and _Paradiso_. Lighting a lamp, he sat down to read, not feeling very absorbed in the writing. Eventually, however, he lost himself in it, taking the opportunity to revive his Italian.

When one of the stairs creaked, he strained his ears, but did not glance up. Then he heard slow, soft footfalls, all the while refusing to move his gaze from the book.

"Erik, is everything all right?"

Finally he looked up. Marguerite was leaning against the doorway, eyes sleepy, hair tousled.

"Yes, I'm quite all right."

"I woke up," she said, slowly moving closer, "and I was too warm to go back to sleep." She yawned. "And then you weren't in the room, so I was curious where you'd gone." She yawned again, speaking around it. "I forgot Parisian summers could be rather unpleasant. But then, I really experienced only one in my life."

"True," he said. When she didn't speak, he added, "It's much cooler underground."

Marguerite smiled vaguely. "I would imagine so." She took a seat in the chair closest to him, curling sideways and tucking her feet under her. "What are you reading?"

"Dante."

"Oh, charming," she said wryly. "How far have you gotten?"

"The fifth circle of hell."

"Lovely." She leaned her head against the back of the chair and let silence hang in the room. For a few minutes, it was only broken once in a while by Erik turning the book's pages, having begun to restlessly scan them rather than read thoroughly.

"Erik," she finally said, "I want to thank you for what you did for me in the opera house this evening. I'm sorry if you felt degraded or anything such as that. But I so very much wanted you to properly meet my mother, and it was the only thing I could think of—the first thing that came to my mind. At the time, it seemed as good as anything else."

"Yes, so you've said."

She hesitated before asking, "You're not angry with me?"

"Not anymore," he said honestly. "I find it nearly impossible to be, at least for long."

"As it should be." She grinned, relaxing. "Are you going to visit Mme Giry tomorrow, then?"

"First thing in the morning," Erik said, finally closing the book, standing up to put it away. "Then I have plans for the rest of the day."

Marguerite's brow wrinkled. "I do hope they involve me, as well."

He tilted his head, pretending to think. At last, he came to a conclusion. "Why, I believe they do." He glanced down at her stomach. "Shouldn't you be resting, then?"

"Yes," she said, patting herself there. "I should be, but I was too uncomfortable to sleep very well." She sighed. "This feels as though it will take a very, very long time for the baby to come."

"I heard you tell your mother that you were going to have a baby," Erik said. "A shame you neglected to tell her she might never see you again because of it."

She frowned. "You're _not _going to bring that up again, are you?"

He shook his head. "You still should warn her, perhaps…eventually."

Looking a little exasperated, Marguerite shrugged. "I suppose so. Not yet. I don't want her to start worrying again as soon as we have resumed contact."

"I suppose not," Erik conceded. He glanced at the clock. Ten minutes to four in the morning. "You really ought to go back to bed."

Marguerite lifted her eyes to the ceiling. "If you say so, monsieur." She held out a hand to him. "Will you be an absolute darling and sing me to sleep? I'm having difficulty in that room tonight, for some reason."

"I can do better than that," he said, bending down to kiss her before lifting her into his arms.

He carried her up the stairs and into the spare room they were using, mentally noting that she had begun to really accumulate weight. Solange was still sleeping deeply, her expression much more relaxed.

The sheets felt a little cooler when he set Marguerite down upon them, but she sprang right back out of bed to open one of the windows, instead of asking him to do it. The early morning air was just the thing to help, and she immediately felt drowsy again.

"Lie down beside me, Erik," she whispered.

"As my lady wishes," he said, his words thickly laced with good-natured irony.

Tonight his body felt cool against hers, and Marguerite shivered when his arms enclosed her. She wriggled until the back of her head was somewhere between Erik's chest and neck, and she felt the vibrations in his throat when he started singing softly in English. She tried to stay awake long enough to hear the whole song, but it was no use, and she finally went back to sleep. Asleep and turned away from him, Marguerite did not see that Erik, too, drifted off into unconsciousness as soon as the song was finished.

* * *

"There's no need for you to bother with me anymore, Erik. I am glad you came, but I don't believe there is any more wisdom for me to impart. Unless you would like to know about raising little girls." 

"I promised you I would come back," Erik said, ignoring the mischievous twinkle in Mme Giry's eyes.

"Did Marguerite not wish to come today?" Giry asked, unable to disguise the tone of sad disappointment.

"We thought it best that she stay away," Erik answered, "for her safety."

"Oh, well, I suppose that's understandable," Giry said. "But she is past the point of greatest danger of losing the child, I think, until the actual time of birth."

Erik shook his head. "It was not her health for which we were concerned," he clarified, trying to remember how much he had told the old woman of their many concerns. Meg was not in the room, and had the nurse also been absent, Erik would have wasted few minutes in revealing the whole story to Mme Giry. He finally stopped hesitating and simply dismissed the other woman.

"How much do you know of my reasons for leaving Paris?" he asked Mme Giry.

Her brow furrowed deeply as she thought. "You had told me that it was to start over, to form a new life with Marguerite outside of Paris. She was the daughter, as I recall, of the _Opera Populaire_'s owner? I believe you had told me her family disowned her, for contrived reasons involving some other young man. Am I correct in thinking you both wished to escape your pasts?"

Correct, yes, and honest and direct—as always. Erik certainly had expected nothing more or less from her. The inner essence of Antoinette Giry had been so unaltered, he was now able to ignore her alarmingly decrepit appearance. He stoically confirmed what she said to him, and proceeded to fill in the details.

Erik told her everything, and it all came forth, strangely enough, more easily than in telling Nadir, who had been given the same knowledge piecemeal. Erik began by telling Giry how he and Marguerite had met—something she already knew—and how he had blackmailed her into gleaning information about Christine de Chagny in return for peace on the opera house. With great pain was very much like regret, he told her how he had Marguerite bring Christine to him that night of the Mardi Gras masquerade, so he could beg for her return in a way he had not attempted previously.

Then he recounted Marcel's attempted rape, and how Erik had inadvertently heaped blame for the younger man's death onto Marguerite's head. In this, he explained that Marguerite, therefore, was no more safe in Paris than he was—in fact, she was less so, for she was a living murder suspect, while Erik had been declared dead years ago. Of their flight from Paris when Marguerite's former admirer, Henri Laroche, had found their hideaway, Erik revealed more detail than Giry already knew.

"_Mon dieu_," she whispered when Erik had finally finished the convoluted narrative. "I could never blame her for wanting to stay out of sight while you're staying here in the city. Wanted for murder, and also by a man who thinks she must be rescued from her own husband!" She shook her head in disbelief. "He must be a fool to wish to challenge you again."

Erik lifted his chin slightly. "As I have said before."

"Oh, rein in that blasted ego of yours, Erik. For a man so beaten and berated by life, you certainly have found much to commend yourself with." She only laughed at his peeved expression. "And I must say, you _do _have the most amusing reactions at times!"

A knock at the bedroom door startled them both, and the nurse opened it ajar to peek inside.

"Beg your pardon _madame_…_monsieur_…but it's very nearly time for your tea, and your daughter insists you eat regularly."

"Very well then," Giry said, sighing with a resigned wave of her hand.

The other two females came into the room, but Meg quickly exited it once more. Her mother was in able hands with the nurse, and she preferred to avoid being in Erik's presence at all possible times. She could not help but admit to herself that he would not harm her mother—it was her own safety that most worried her. It was no matter to Erik or Mme Giry; this eased the conversation between them, for they could discuss little in front of Meg, and in front of the nurse only if they did not use specific names.

After several more minutes of conversation, they both paused to hear a knock on the flat's outermost door. Erik frowned, suspicious, and Giry's eyes widened a little. He thought he heard Meg whispering frantically, but she was in the next room, and the nurse was bustling about so that he could not tell. Perhaps it was nothing.

He and Giry were about to go back to their conversation when they clearly heard Meg cry out, "Please, just _go!_" The slam of the door immediately followed.

Erik turned his head back to look at Mme Giry, raising his eyebrows a little. "Perhaps Mlle Giry is having trouble with a gentleman as well?" Erik asked.

"She has not seen anyone since coming to care for me," Giry said weakly, "as much as I wish otherwise."

"Hmm," Erik murmured noncommittally. Somehow that little incident had ruined all chances of further conversation. Besides, Erik realized that he was quickly losing the morning, and he had other things to attend to that day, as well. He glanced at the tarnished clock on the fireplace and slowly rose to his feet.

"I can't possibly tell you when I shall see you again," he said gruffly. In his heart, he was fighting against a wave of loss that crashed into him whenever he wondered how much time she had left to live. "I will come back before we leave the city."

"As you wish," Giry said, "though you needn't feel as though you should. Give my regards to Marguerite, and your little girl."

Erik offered her a tiny smile and a nod, which was more than he gave to Meg as he left. Indeed, it was far more than he received, for she looked quickly away, and he could tell she was deathly pale, even worse than usual. Had she fallen ill, too? Well, there was a nurse there, already. Erik need not concern himself with _her_.

Something tickled his consciousness as he went down the apartment building's rickety, dank stairwell. It was similar to the feeling that had nagged at him late last night, as he had wandered around, wide-awake. He pulled the hood of his cloak up and over his head and stepped outside. Blinking in the sunlight, he realized there was nothing to worry about at the present time—there was the hansom cab, just where he had paid the driver to wait. With a quiet sigh of relief, Erik strode toward it.

Then he realized that there was an identical hansom, less than ten yards away, and for a moment, he hesitated. But no, he remembered that one's horse, it was the one that had had pulled _his _cab. As he continued toward the correct carriage, he glanced at the other one, and his breath caught in his throat.

_Only shadows_…_They are only shadows_…_It could be anyone_…

As many times as he told himself that—screamed it, in fact, within the confines of his mind—he knew there was no mistaking it. He looked away, but could not move to step inside the carriage, or so much as open the door. His bowels writhed and twisted, his lungs filled with burning coals, and his head swam with greatest agony. This could not be happening, not of all days, not after all this time.

But he had seen her. There was no mistaking it, even in the most fleeting glimpse. The dark, wide eyes, the glistening brown curls, and the alabaster skin were all the same, all unmarred, as if time stood still just for her. In fact, her beauty had grown even richer over the years…but he couldn't think about that. He could _not!_ His feet rooted to the sidewalk, Erik leaned forward, pressing his head against the side of the carriage, trying to catch his breath. His neck began to ache with the desire to turn it for one more look and the physical resistance he was now employing.

He succumbed to his weaker self, and he turned to look at her once again. In that one single glance, he almost lost his composure completely. It confirmed, once and for all, that Christine de Chagny was sitting inside of the other carriage, dressed like a queen, smiling and sparkling, with her idiotically happy husband sitting beside her. Erik finally forced himself to step into his own hansom, but that last stolen glance made it all the more difficult.

In that final moment, he knew she had seen him, too.


	35. Angel of Darkness

**A/N: All right, yes, again, this chapter is coming sooner than I had dared to hope. I don't know what is going on, but I really wish that this inspiration and enthusiasm had come earlier, such as over Christmas break, or at the beginning of the semester, when I didn't have _two_ 10-page research papers (in both my history classes) to do in 3 weeks or less. Wow, I am so screwed! Oh, well, I'll be sure to at least do a passing job, hopefully!**

**This chapter is…well, it's intense. And before you start cheering, it's not what you might think. I had difficulty writing it, because it's emotionally draining (again!), and way beyond your everyday angst. But I believe it works, and trust me, I know where it's going.**

Disclaimer: Uh…why?

* * *

"Marguerite, are you _sure _you want to stay here?" Paige asked. "There would be no trouble at all—Georgette will gladly look after Solange, and you can leave a message for Erik, telling him you went with me. I do hate to go out, knowing all the while you'll be sitting in here, alone."

"Oh, I'm hardly alone right now," Marguerite said with a smile, patting the head of the little girl in her lap. "My little _ange_ is very good company, aren't you darling?"

"I am!" With a bounce that drew a gasp from her mother, Solange sprang from her lap to the floor. She was holding tightly to a doll Nadir had brought her the day before, while her parents were at the theater. "Play with me, Mama!"

"If you're sure…" Paige said anxiously to Marguerite from the door, her hand on the doorknob.

"Yes, yes!" The young mother said, genially exasperated. "Erik said he had plans, and so I want to be here when he returns. Now, _go!_" With a chuckle, she slid to the floor next to her daughter while Paige finally left the house for her waiting carriage.

"Have you decided on a name for her yet?" she asked Solange, referring to the new toy.

"No, I'm still thinking," the child answered, gravely serious. She quietly unbuttoned and re-buttoned the doll's dress and bounced her up and down in an awkward dance, humming an incoherent little tune. Marguerite found amusement in the doll's golden curls and brilliantly painted blue eyes. The toy resembled no one in their family and therein, perhaps, was its novelty. After some time, Solange thrust it toward her mother. "Make her sing, Mama," she said. When Marguerite's eyebrows rose, she quickly added, "_please?_"

"I don't know how to make her sing, _ma petit_," Marguerite said. "Maybe you could sing _for_ her."

"_No!_" The child's intensity startled even her mother. "Papa could make her sing! He makes lots of things sing and talk. Beatrice talked to me once, and Papa made a flower sing, too." Frowning, she turned her attention back to the toy. Marguerite wondered if, by ignoring her, Solange was admonishing her mother for her failure. It was a disconcerting thought.

"Papa can do lots of things that I can't," Marguerite said with barely concealed acrimony, immediately wishing she had not spoken so. With a sigh, she sat back on her heels. At least there was _something_ she could do well. "Would you like to hear a story?"

"All right," Solange said, still concentrated on the doll.

Marguerite stood up to look over Paige's bookshelves. Erik had all but openly insulted the selection, but she found many of the titles delightful. There had been a well-worn French collection of fairy tales somewhere, if she could only find it. With a smile, she spotted the thick tome and pulled it away from its companions.

She had not yet selected a story, however, when the front door slammed, causing Marguerite to jump and Solange to cry out in fright. Dropping the book on a chair, Marguerite looked through the doorway just in time to see Erik disappearing up the stairs.

"It's Papa," she said to Solange, trying not to sound too concerned. "You be a good girl and stay _right there_, and I will be back in just a moment."

As she hurried up the stairs, she tried to think of what those thumping sounds could possibly be. Then she realized Erik was treading loudly, something she was not used to hearing. Once upstairs, she found him in the guest room, finally standing still and staring out the window. His chest heaved; his breath fogged up the glass. His hands were clenched into fists, fists that looked more powerful and lethal than Marguerite could ever believe. She could not ever remember Erik himself looking so dangerous. She stepped hesitantly into the room.

"Erik? What's wrong?"

"Go away," he said.

For a few seconds, she stood in shock at his words, and then began to feel their full effect. From his voice, there was a chill that seeped into her chest, as though she had taken a plunge into icy waters. Her lungs would not work, and her very heart seemed to shrink. Helplessly she stared at him, and he seemed to forget she was there. He pressed a hand to the windowpane, as though a prisoner behind it, trying to seek a way out. He stared down into the street below, as if his goal was somehow there.

What had happened to him in the past few hours?

Though every rational instinct told her to run, she stepped closer, and closer still.

"Is it Mme Giry?" she asked. "Is she—?"

"That woman will outlive us all," he answered tersely, without turning around. Up close, Marguerite could see the tension in his shoulders and back. His cloak had been hastily ripped off and tossed to the floor. He seemed completely unconscious, yet awake, until Marguerite laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't _touch me!_" he roared, whirling around and roughly pushing her hand away. She stumbled backwards, gasping.

"I must…I must know what has happened!" she whispered, frantic and unable to believe what she was witnessing.

"_God!_" Erik cried out. "_Will I have no more than a scrap of peace in my lifetime?_"

Marguerite hung back, staring, terrified, as her husband clenched his head in both hands and uttered a feral growl that wrenched at her gut. Breath rasping, he looked desperately around the room, his gaze resting on a little equestrian statuette. Snatching it up, he threw it at the fireplace with all his strength. The crash was surprisingly loud for such a small object—it awakened Marguerite, and she finally fled the room. She heard Solange crying before she saw her again.

"Mama, I'm scared!" the child gasped, tears streaming inconsolably down her face as she clutched her doll as though it was her only sustenance.

"It's all right, _ma petit_," Marguerite said, hugging her closely. "It's all right." Seeing her daughter's tears dried her own eyes and filled her with righteous anger that she had to rein in. "Let's go play somewhere else."

The kitchen help had not been deaf to the house's raging guest. The cook and one maid were both in the room, looking like frightened rabbits in their burrow when Marguerite came in, Solange firmly in hand.

"Will you divert her for a few minutes, please?" Marguerite asked, lifting up Solange to settle her into a chair.

"_Oui, madame_," Georgette said nervously.

"Thank you." To Solange, she said, "You stay here with them and be good while I go talk to Papa." She kissed Solange's free hand, her fear dissolving into gall and fury. "It's all right."

"No, Mama, don't go," the child whined.

"Don't worry, Solange, I will be right back." Marguerite kissed her cheek and left quickly. She came back into the bedroom just in time to see Erik pick up a crystal vase, prepared to hurl that as well, toward the wardrobe. With a strangled gasp, Marguerite rushed at him and grabbed at his arm, trying to wrest it from him.

"Erik, _don't!_" She clawed at his hand, but he only grabbed her am with his free hand and, baring his teeth, threw her from him so she staggered against the bed and toppled onto it.

"_Leave me!_" he thundered.

"Erik, _what _is going on?" she shouted back. "Have you gone mad?"

"Oh, yes," he said with one barking laugh, "I have gone quite mad indeed! I've been seeing things, and all my demons are flying about my head like vultures, waiting to feast on my decaying flesh. Waiting to feast on the peace of mind I was fool enough to believe I had! I could not outrun them for long, I can see that now…"

Lowering the arm that held the vase aloft, he turned to regard Marguerite, eyes shining malevolently. "Can you see them, too?"

"Erik, there is nothing on your head but your mask."

"Yes," he whispered, laying his palm against the cold whiteness that covered half his face. He set the vase back in place upon the table and instead ripped away his shield. "My _mask!_" Marguerite watched, speechless, as he glared at it hatefully.

"But for _this _fiendish disguise," he said, "Heaven only knows what might have been…Today I have been reminded of what it has cost me." He laughed again. "Out of sight, out of mind indeed—and no one ever says what happens if the sight returns."

Marguerite's lips parted slightly, not completely sure of what he meant. She could only speculate, and infinite ideas filled her head, each more repulsive than the last.

"You look terrified, my dear," Erik said to her. "Have I _frightened _you?" He took several steps toward her. "Please don't tell me that, after all this time, my handsome features should still fill your heart with dread."

She shook her head and just managed to rasp, "No."

He advanced. "Yet you tremble and cower and stare wide-eyed in horror at this _thing _before you. All your pretty words, how have they held up to time?"

"Don't do this, Erik," she said firmly, while inching away from him as he towered over the bedside. "It's not your face. Please don't say those things." Feeling like a cornered cat, she scooted further away from him, but he darted around to the other side, even closer. "It's not your face, Erik!" she screamed wrathfully. "Why won't you listen to me? What has happened to you?" When he reached out and dragged her toward him, she flung her arms up over her head in an automatic gesture of self-defense.

"It has caught up with me!" Erik groaned, shaking her. "In my mind I am forced to relive it over and over! I cannot escape it; it cannot be removed. This agony will not leave me—after dormant months, it flares up again like a disease! There is no chance…" Anger finally spent, he released her from his grasp and sank to his knees at the side of the bed, burying his face in the covers. "This malady has no cure…"

Dazed, Marguerite watched him for a few seconds, each one seeming like a separate hour. At last she was convinced he would not flare up again, and she reached out a hand to brush her fingers along his hair. He did not flinch at her touch. Had he expected it, yearned for it, or was he simply dead to the world?"

"I wish I could do something," she murmured, "or that I even knew what to say. Until you tell me anything, I am utterly useless to you."

"There is nothing to be done," Erik mumbled. "You cannot help me."

In the calm of the moment, Marguerite felt tears working their way to the surface of her eyes. Her throat constricted, she said, "Won't you tell me what's happened to make you say these things? Why are you behaving this way?" When she received no response from him, she moaned and leaned forward to place a kiss on top of his head. "Erik, please. I'm frightened for you…I'm frightened _of _you. But it is your actions, not your face."

Still he said nothing. Marguerite brought her knees closer to her body, wrapping her arms around them. What was to be done? Something happened while he was out—it was the only logical reason, though she doubted there was very much that was _logical_ in what was happening. Had Meg said something to him? It was hardly likely. The entire reason she had lashed out so vehemently at Marguerite was because she lacked the nerve to do so at Erik. Perhaps Mme Giry accidentally said too much, or the wrong thing, in their conversation, but Marguerite could not believe that was so.

_Out of sight, out of mind_…

Had the unthinkable happened? Had _their _paths crossed once more—after so long a time apart? Her stomach twisted, and her mouth felt dry. She was quite sure she didn't want to know anymore, but what else would have led to such a reaction from Erik, such irrational outrage? Watching him, feeling as though her heart had been gouged out, Marguerite prayed, _God, what do I do now?_

She waited a little longer, and then said quietly, "I'm still here, Erik. Do you hear me? I'm the one still here for you."

When he finally looked at her, his eyes not longer possessed their fatal gleam. They were dull, blank, as if Death had already taken the life from them.

"Yes," he said slowly, "_you _are here. You yet remain." He rose to his feet, looking strangely fragile, and settled onto the bed beside her. "You can help me forget about it."

"Forget _what?_" She sighed, exasperated, fighting her helplessness and a deep desire to cry. "I can't _help _you if you don't tell me why you need help at all!"

"Everything," he said. "I don't want to remember anything." Bowing his head, he pressed his hands against his eyes. "_Bon dieu_, it's too much…I see her all too clearly…"

"Erik…" She felt as though she would be sick, but there was something that needed to be said. As much as she wanted to let it go, it was imperative. Her gorge rose, but she suppressed it. "Was Christine at Mme Giry's this morning?"

If Erik was on the brink of another explosion, that name was a single match to his fuse. His head snapped up, and he grasped Marguerite's shoulders and forced her down onto her back.

"_Don't speak her name to me again!_" he yelled to her face.

"Erik!" She writhed and squirmed beneath the painful pressure of his hands. When she reached up to try to push him away, he gripped her wrists instead. "Stop it! _Stop! _If you'd only think for a minute—tell me what happened—you don't need—_Get off me!_"

"_Never _say that name in front of me _again_," Erik said, his voice low and eerily calm. "For that name, I have been put through hell, and because of that name, I suffer still."

"You said…you _said_…" Marguerite gasped, panic filling her chest like water. She was drowning again, fighting for her life and choking to death, this time on her own tears. "Erik, you promised…you said you love me…Don't tell me this now…" With her arms immobilized, she tried to kick him, but he pinned down her legs with his own. A fear she thought she would never know again swept over her. For a moment Marguerite thought that she, too, would lose her mind, as it seemed her husband had done.

"Marguerite, stop screaming," he said through his teeth. "I don't want to hurt you…I just need to forget…you'll help me forget, won't you?"

His expression changed just slightly, and it became clear what he meant to do.

_Enough is enough! _Marguerite thought, summoning up her strength and her own ire. "You think that after all that, I'm going to let you treat me like a common whore?" she spat back.

Erik's eyes darkened, and she saw that her words had only served to dredge up the very last of his inmost fury. He removed his left hand from holding her wrist, reaching for the buttons of his trousers. She seized this moment and, with an earsplitting shriek, slapped him as hard as she could with her free hand. It was only then, in the fraction of a second after she had done it, that she thought of the possible consequences.

It might make things worse, but she would _not _let him treat her like that! She would not let herself be punished for events that had transpired before she knew of them. There was only so much she could be asked to bear. He had never directed so much anger at her before, and she wondered what he would do. It was clear that he was not in his right mind, but was it permanent? Was there any way to bring him back? Could she fight him off if he actually meant to cause her physical harm? The very idea that her husband would intend such a thing was impossible for her to comprehend, but perhaps she would have to face it still…

All this ran through her mind the instant her palm had come into contact with his head, leaving a vicious, red print on the one side of his face that had, until now, been unmarred. She looked right into his eyes when she did it, and what she saw was utterly unexpected.

It was as if she had looked up into a stormy sky, just as the clouds stopped grumbling and separated to let the sunshine break through. Erik stared at her in shock, silenced for just a moment before moving his hand to cover the smarting skin. His expression was blank—all but his eyes. The bright green orbs shone, not with wrath this time, or madness, but the full realization of what he had been prepared to do. Marguerite watched him, not moving her gaze from his, and kept herself perfectly still.

Erik moved away from her suddenly, as though she was diseased. His breathing was shallow as he backed away from the bed, slowly shaking his head.

"Marguerite, I…" He hesitated.

Sitting up, she watched him silently, neither encouraging him nor preventing him from continuing.

"I…" He looked around the room with the same desperate expression as before. When he saw where he had discarded his mask, he seized it, along with his cloak, and fled the room without another utterance. A few seconds later, Marguerite heard the front door slam.

With a massive sigh, she flopped onto her back again. She wanted to give release to her tears, but this was no opportunity. Solange was in the kitchen, and doubtless she had heard some of her father's thundering words, in no way comprehending them. Marguerite forced herself to stand up again and straighten her skirt. Her hair was disheveled, but ignored it for the time being. She took another deep breath to steady herself before going back downstairs, biting her lip painfully to keep herself in check.

Solange had not stopped crying, and the servants looked no less alarmed. Marguerite did not say anything to them, but embraced her daughter, stroking her hair.

"It's all right, _ma petit_," she said again. "You have nothing to be afraid of. Papa was angry, but he's gone to take care of things."

"Was Papa angry at you?"

"No, darling…and not you, either. He's angry at something that happened a long time ago." She placed a finger under her chin and tipped her face up. "Don't be afraid, it has nothing to do with you. Do you understand me, Solange?"

She nodded obediently.

"Madame, are you all right?" the cook ventured to ask.

Marguerite stood straighter and looked her in the eye. "I am, yes." She picked up Solange again, grunting with the weight of her. "Come on, Solange, let's get you ready. We're going out for the day." She looked over her shoulder at Georgette and the cook. "If my husband comes back and wants to know where I am, just…tell him I've…gone out."

"Where are we going, Mama?" Solange asked when Marguerite had taken her back into the bedroom and set her down on the bed.

"I'm taking you to meet your _grandmaman_ Isabelle," she said, looking for a hairbrush. Finally finding it, she brushed Solange's glossy black mane and tied it into a ribbon. "My own _maman_. She wants to meet you very, very much." She began helping the little girl into her shoes. "So you must remember to be polite, and smile, and say _merci _if she gives you anything." She looked at her sternly. "And listen carefully, Solange—you are _not _to mention Papa being angry today, all right?"

"Yes, Mama. Why isn't he coming?"

Marguerite sighed. "He went to visit M. Khan."

She sincerely hoped that was true, but deep inside herself, she had a notion that it wasn't. She silently prayed that he would not look for Christine, either, and she had a little bit of faith that he would not. The expression on his face before he left had been shock and self-loathing. Just for a moment, he had become fully aware of what was happening to himself, both without and within. She had reason for hope, but even so…Marguerite did not want to be there when he came back.

"All ready to go?" she asked Solange, perhaps a little too brightly, when she had wiped the last residue of tears from the child's face. "This will be a wonderful outing. She will positively adore you."

Marguerite quickly rearranged her own hair, pinned on a hat, and grabbed her handbag. After helping Solange walk down the stairs, they left the house to seek a carriage. In a short while, they would set foot inside the house Marguerite had not seen in years. Perhaps there was a chance someone would recognize her en route, but she was beyond caring.


	36. Welcome Home

**A/N: I guess I work best when I am exhausted and not entirely in my right mind…oh, dear.**

* * *

Isabelle was as delighted to see her daughter standing in her parlor as she was astonished. Overjoyed to meet her precocious little granddaughter, she had no idea how to divide up her attention between the two. She clasped their hands and showered them both with kisses, offering them whatever refreshments were available. She admired Solange's striking eyes and fussed over Marguerite's pallor. It took every last particle of determination within Marguerite not to show her tears, but she was resolved to put on the best face she could…for the moment.

It was everything she could have asked for in a reunion with her mother, but coming in the wake of Erik's cruelty, it was almost too much for her mind and body. Regrettably withholding a part of herself, she settled into an easy conversation with Isabelle about Solange, their journey to Paris, and how she had met Mlle Lambert, the brother of whom M Gautier had become fleetingly acquainted. Marguerite gave vague information about Mme Giry, pretending to know less than she did. Her answers implied that the woman was a sort of surrogate mother for Erik, and Isabelle's curiosity seemed satisfied.

Marguerite hoped her mother would not ask any sensitive questions yet—though heaven knew they needed to be asked. For the time, it seemed Isabelle was merely content to be so near her daughter, after years apart. When Marguerite began to think she could not hold up the front any longer, she turned the conversation's direction toward her mother.

Isabelle briefly mentioned a few structural improvements to the opera house that Gautier had made. She talked about balls and parties, and who had married whom in the past few years. Both of Marguerite's closest Parisian friends, Charlotte and Estelle, had married well enough, and were still in the city. A few older men and women Marguerite barely remembered had died and left considerable fortunes to their offspring. A talented, up-and-coming soprano in last season's cast had failed to effectively hide her pregnancy, and the scandal had driven her to leave without any notice. Gautier's secretary, a boy with more wit than he let on, quit his post soon after, leaving everyone convinced he was the father. Isabelle also mentioned her desire for a trip to the country in a few weeks, when the summer's heat had grown still more uncomfortable. It was clear she was hoping for an invitation to visit her daughter, but Marguerite amiably avoided indulging her.

For the time being, Marguerite was content to soak herself in more superficial conversation, and to listen more than speak. Eventually Solange wandered off into the next room, discovered the piano, and immediately went to work. As her father would have done, she spared no words of disappointment when she played the first note and found it abysmally out of tune. Still, her nimble fingers produced a greater quality of sound than the piano would have possessed under less skillful use. Isabelle turned a pair of startled eyes toward her daughter.

"Her ability is uncanny, Marguerite—to say the least."

"All from her father, I assure you," she said, sipping her tea. "He is the musical genius in our household, not me."

"No one has played that instrument since…since your last lesson."

"Appropriate then, I think, that my daughter should be the one to change that," Marguerite said with a smile.

With Solange thus occupied, she realized now was the best time to clear up some old mistakes. Setting her teacup aside, she took a deep breath, folded her shaky hands in her lap, and said, "_Maman_, there are some things I must say, and ask."

"You may ask any manner of questions, darling."

She closed her eyes as she asked, "Whatever became of Marcel's murder investigation?"

Isabelle looked at her with pity and an obvious reluctance to discuss it. "Marguerite, there is nothing to be said about…that. I believed you when you said you had nothing to do with it, but no one else was found guilty. It remains unsolved."

_I said I didn't do it,_ Marguerite thought, _not that I was uninvolved_.

"Perhaps," Isabelle continued after a pause to reconsider, "you should know what happened after all."

Marguerite nodded. "I certainly want to know."

"Well," Isabelle said, putting her own teacup on the table. "Your father did not believe you did it, either. Oh, for a while he was furious that you had lied to us, writing to say you ran away with Marcel, and then finding out you left Paris with another man about whom we knew nothing. I had to tell him, eventually, about our accidental meeting so long ago. He thought you had made fools of us, but has since forgiven you. He even vouched for your innocence to the D'Aubigne family. So did Henri Laroche."

She plucked at a handkerchief clutched in her hands. "With such advocates and so little evidence against you, even the stubborn D'Aubignes decided you could not be charged with the murder."

"Thank God," Marguerite murmured. "Then I am safe."

Her mother bit her lip and began twisting the handkerchief nervously. "From the authorities, yes. There will certainly be no gendarmes out to catch you. But the D'Aubigne family is still convinced that you seduced their son and convinced him to run away with you and abandon them and somehow get himself murdered. They have forgiven and forgotten nothing. Even yet, they want your blood…especially Mme D'Aubigne."

"Of course." Marguerite sighed. "I have heard—don't ask me how—Henri Laroche still wishes to find me. Are you aware of what happened between that man and myself?"

"Do I want to know?" Isabelle asked with raised eyebrows.

Marguerite did not bother to answer that question, but plunged ahead. "He thought Erik had kidnapped me and _forced _me to wed him. He came to our…house…and begged me to come away with him, but Erik drove him away…" Her words faded a little, and her eyes grew distant before she lowered her head. "Erik is not to be challenged when he's angry."

She clenched her eyes against the tears and twisted her mouth, but it was useless.

"Darling, what's wrong?" Isabelle asked. "Is it the baby? Are you in pain?"

Marguerite shook her head. "Oh, Mama, I wish I could tell you everything…I can't…there is too much, so much you would not even believe. I cannot tell. But I _am _in pain. Every beat of my heart is an ache, and I wish it would stop and free me from this!" She tried to keep her voice down, Solange being so near.

"What has made you so miserable that you wish for death?" Isabelle looked appalled.

"No, not death." She sniffed and took the handkerchief her mother offered. "Just a little peace…I wish I knew how to tell you." Her mind went over years of details, wondering how much she could reveal, and what she could alter so it was still honest.

She decided to say that Erik had accidentally met with a woman he had been madly in love with years ago, but who would not marry him for various reasons. He had come home in a rage, and attempted to use his wife like a prostitute to get the other woman out of his mind. Realizing what he had been about to do, he fled, and Marguerite followed suit—in a different direction.

Isabelle took most of this in with a cold expression. "Men can often be very cruel. If this is the first time he's behaved in such a way, you are fortunate. Better that he takes it out on a real harlot and spares you, though I should think he'd better wait. He'll have more difficulty finding such a woman _this _time of the day."

Marguerite felt the heat pour into her face. She did not want to think about what her mother was insinuating about Erik—or her own father. "That's not what he's doing." She felt sick at the thought, but she had no doubt of her own statement. If Erik would ever be unfaithful to her, it would be with Christine, and no one else. No other woman would have him, and Erik himself had discerning tastes, even in such matters. No common Parisian whore would do—he wanted the best of everything, always.

For a moment, she was angry with her mother for putting such thoughts into her head. But even so, she knew Isabelle had few actual facts about the situation. The woman knew nothing of Erik's tendencies, of his past, or of his character, and she never would. Whatever she said, Marguerite had to remember that it was spoken out of love for her daughter, with the best of intentions, however she missed the mark.

"Well," Isabelle said, "if he's a man, he's got to take his anger out on _something_."

"And that's why…" Marguerite said. "Erm…that is, I was wondering if Solange and I might stay here with you tonight. I can't go back…not yet."

"Goodness child, was it so dreadful?"

Unable to speak, Marguerite nodded. Perhaps her mother would form an unfavorably one-sided view of Erik, but there was no way on earth that Marguerite would go back there today.

"You most certainly may stay here. I'll have Francesca make up a room for you both." She stood up, still wide-eyed with this turn of events. "Oh, my, won't your father be surprised!"

Marguerite began to wonder how Erik would react when he came back to Paige Lambert's house to find his wife and daughter gone, with no hint of their whereabouts. Where would he look? Would he _bother _to look anywhere? Hopefully his temper would be subdued by then, and his missing wife would not enrage him further.

An idea came to her head. Lest he be in a fouler mood, there were some precautions she might take…if it was not too late…

"Mother, I need to write a few letters—for immediate delivery."

Isabelle gestured toward the room from which came the piano music. "There's a desk in there where I usually write my correspondence. You'll find everything you need there. I will return in just a moment." She left the parlor to find the maid to set up a place for Marguerite and Solange to stay.

Marguerite went into the next room and smiled when she saw Solange perched on the very edge of the piano bench, her feet far from the floor. The little girl did not even register her presence; her tongue stuck out slightly, in deep concentration. At the sight of her, Marguerite's breath hitched in her chest as she took a seat at the writing desk. In a moment, however, she had to readjust her focus.

There were two people in the forefront of her mind as she took a piece of stationery and dipped a pen into the inkwell. One of them could wait, perhaps, but the other certainly required her present attention. She barely paused to think about what she would say before simply attacking the paper. The result was scrawled and blotchy, but—she hoped—legible.

_Dear Paige,_

_I certainly hope Erik is not in your house when you receive this note, as I am offering some explanation for his behavior, should you be so unfortunate as to meet him today. Alas, I can offer nothing of any substance, but merely warn you. I believe he has come into contact with his former love today, and it has sent him into a rage that I could not possibly understand fully. Please remove yourself from his path, if you do come across him. I have taken Solange and myself from your home for at least tonight, but I cannot say how long this situation is to continue. Please, for my sake, plead with Nadir to speak to Erik. I believe he is the only human being alive capable of reasoning with him._

_Your Friend,_

_Marguerite_

_Post-Script: I am safe with my parents, so you need not worry about me, or Solange. My concern is rather for you. Please burn this letter, and do not allow Erik to read it. I believe he can guess where I have gone, but I do not want him to be told for certain. Perhaps when next I see you, I shall be better able to inform you what has transpired._

Marguerite skimmed it once before deciding it was good enough. She folded it, sealed it, and somehow managed to calm herself enough to decently write the address. With a friend such as Paige, her language need not be so formal and restrained. In composing the next note, however, she almost failed to write clearly, due to the nervous tremble of her hand.

What could she say to a man—her social superior, no less—whom she did not know? How was she to warn him of the possible danger he and his wife were in? Marguerite was, of course, less concerned for their well-being than she was for Erik. She wanted to do whatever possible to keep him from committing a grievous act, or somehow falling into further misfortune. Yet while she possessed any amount of power to spare other people, she knew in her heart she had to take this opportunity.

But how awkward it was!

She finally leaned back in the chair and exhaled with relief, as though she had been holding her breath the entire time she was writing. Every last drop of rationality seemed to have been beaten out of her mind by the time she reread her second letter.

_Monsieur le Vicomte:_

_As inappropriate as a letter may be when we have never been introduced, I am under great pressure from my own conscience to relate some unpleasant information to you. For the first time in four years, my husband and I have returned to Paris to pay our respects to our dear friend, Mme Antoinette Giry. Because my husband is none other than Erik, better known as _le Fantome de l'Opera, _I believe in my heart that you, _Monsieur le Vicomte, _must be informed of his presence in the city. There was no prior intention on his part to contact your wife, but an accidental meeting seems to have occurred. Whether or not you are already aware of it, I have taken it upon myself to inform you. This has had a terrible, drastic effect upon his senses, causing him to relive events that he would prefer to have forgotten. _Monsieur le Vicomte, _I advise you to take precautions, for Erik earlier left the house where we have been staying, without telling me where he has gone. Please do not involve any outsiders—and I mean, most specifically, the police—but do take care of yourself and your family, and do not seek him out! I tell you this only out of concern for him and anyone who may suffer undue consequences of his (sometimes irrational) anger._

_Most Respectfully Yours,_

_Mme Marguerite du Fleuve_

It would have to do. She grabbed the letters and left the room, beginning to feel foolish and frightened for not having written them sooner. How many valuable hours had she already wasted? What had Erik been doing this whole time? Ideas marched through her brain, one by one, and if she did not have distraction and respite, she thought she might go mad.

Her mother was in the parlor again. "Who can take these letters for me?" Marguerite asked.

"Bertrand will deliver them wherever they need to go," Isabelle said. "Give them to him and he'll see that it is taken care of."

Marguerite nodded. "Will he make haste? These are important, and very, very urgent."

"By all means, tell him so," Isabelle said. "I'm sure he will do his very best for you." She glanced down at the letters clutched in Marguerite's fingers and emitted something between a cough and a gasp. "_Vicomte Raoul de Chagny_? Marguerite, whatever do you have to say to _him?_"

The younger woman sighed and shook her head, exasperated. "Again, Mama, it is too much to explain. I have neither the time nor the strength at this moment. You _must _trust me in this."

"Someday," Isabelle said, "I hope to know _all_ you have been hiding from me."

Marguerite smiled sadly. "I do wish that could be so."

"Is there _nothing else _you can tell me of the past four years of your life? Something else must have happened, for you constantly allude to such strange things…" She bit her lower lip. "But I cannot pressure you, can I? I don't want to lose you again."

"Perhaps later, you will know," Marguerite said. "But Mama…I'm very tired, and I would so much like to rest for a while. I think Solange should have a nap, as well—her fingers will start bleeding if I don't take her away from that piano soon."

"Oh," Isabelle moaned sympathetically, standing up again. "You poor darling, of course. We've been chatting for so long, and here you must be absolutely worn out. Give me the letters, and I'll see them delivered. Your…your old room has not been in use since you were last here, so you're perfectly free to take Solange up there with you to relax for a bit."

"Thank you, Mama." Marguerite handed the papers over to her mother's outstretched hand. It took some coaxing to get Solange away from the instrument, but in a few minutes, she was clutching her mother's hand, being guided up the stairs.

"Is this where you lived, Mama?"

"Yes, _petit_, and we're going to lie down for a little while in my old room."

"I'm not tired," Solange said predictably.

"I know," Marguerite said. "You always say that…but I want you to rest anyway." In her mind, she added, _You will be unconscious in two minutes_.

"Is Papa coming later?" Solange took one last hesitant step, and they were on the second floor. She turned her head to peer through the balustrade, and Marguerite hoped she would quickly forget her question. Unfortunately, after admiring the view of the foyer, Solange turned back to her mother with an inquiring eye, silently begging for an answer.

"Maybe later," Marguerite said, unsure of what else to say.

"Where did he go?"

"He went back to visit his friend, Mme Giry, after he was going to see M Khan." Marguerite swallowed back her nervousness. "You and I are going to stay here tonight, and you'll meet my _Papa_, your _grandpère_, too! Won't that be lovely?"

"Oh, yes!" Solange appeared genuinely enthusiastic, much to Marguerite's relief.

"He would be so delighted, you know, if you played the piano for him," she added. "Wouldn't you like that?"

"Yes, Mama." It was spoken in obedience this time, without gusto. "Will he make me sing?"

"No, _petit ange_, no one will make you sing tonight."

"Good," she sighed. "I'm glad Papa won't be here."

Marguerite closed her eyes as pain shot through her body, like the first pangs of childbirth. She was about to scold the child, but somehow could not bring herself to do so. It grieved her deeply to hear Solange speak in such a way about her own father. Yet how could Marguerite blame the child when she herself felt the very same way, for far more serious reasons? If things between her and her husband were ever fully repaired, she reminded herself to tell him not to press Solange so much to sing.

"Mama, it's so pretty!" Solange gasped when they stepped into the bedroom that had once been Marguerite's. She let go of her mother's hand and pranced across the room to look into the large mirror, and then moved to pull open the wardrobe. The door stuck, and Marguerite, chuckling in spite of herself, had to help her.

She sucked in her breath, completely taken aback at the sight of all her old frocks still hung up, just as she had left them. There was the blue satin dress she had worn to the _Opera Populaire_'s re-opening, and the pine-colored velvet she wore to the ball where she met Christine the very first time. There were even a few dresses she had kept—for whatever reason—from when they had lived in _Saint-Marie_, the first twenty years of her life. A pair of shoes she remembered dancing in, a pair of gloves…each thread and button seemed to hold a memory of its own.

"These were my clothes," Marguerite murmured, only half to her daughter. As if in a dream, she reached out and ran her hand against one of the dresses, her skin relishing the touch of silk and fine lace. She took it out and held it up at arm's length, realizing, to her dismay, that it would never fit her again. It was sure to be out of style anyway. With a sigh, she put it back and placed her hand on the wardrobe door to close it.

"Come along, Solange. You can look at them later."

"But Mama—"

"No, not now. We're going to rest. It's been a very difficult day, and…" She caught herself, feeling herself flush. "And we're going to rest."

Just as she had thought, despite the protest, Solange was asleep within minutes. Marguerite, however, did not fall asleep for quite some time. Instead of giving her peace, her mind's eye ran through the day's events—and it was not even suppertime yet!—and exhausted her all over again. What was Erik doing now? Where had he gone? To whom had he spoken? She yearned to speak to him, to find him, to ask him once again to explain what he was thinking, if he could. But everything else within her rebelled against it. She could not seek him out. She could not give in. She had been wronged, and she was the one to whom he owed a most elaborate apology.

_No, not an apology,_ she corrected herself. _There must be something else_. _There must be some kind of change_._ I cannot live like this anymore_.

Was simply leaving Paris any solution? Surely something else would call them back, especially now that Marguerite was becoming reconciled with her parents. Things could not go on as they were. How she longed for their serene life in the country again! Why did things have to happen this way?

_Mme Giry, why didn't you go to Rome with your daughter?_

It was wicked to be so bitter toward a dying woman who had only done what she thought she must, but Marguerite could not wholly suppress it.

No matter whom she was angry at, her thoughts continually rotated back to Erik. Perhaps she _should _speak to him first. Her anger would certainly not help things. But he was the one to blame. He had treated her abominably; there was no arguing that.

With a low moan, she turned over and buried her face in her pillow. Even that smelled just as she had remembered.

_God in Heaven, why couldn't You have made me fall in love with a simpler man? Why couldn't it have been—?_

She refused to allow herself to finish the thought. There were many, many things that might have been…none of which would have suited. Looking back, she tried to remember times when things should have been different, when she should have acted differently. The only examples she could think of were unimportant, and unrelated to their current situation.

_Why does love have to be so complicated?_

Even if she had to repeat it all, she would end up in the exact same place she was at that moment. Despite the anguish, the pain, the complications, and the damage, nothing would have been changed. The knowledge of this was comforting, frightening, and aggravating. She would have to just be patient—_something _would emerge eventually. Some idea would come to her, or some choice would present itself. For the moment, a reprieve from thought—from _life_—was all she needed.

Just before drifting off to sleep, Marguerite suddenly realized where Erik would be. The knowledge made it much more difficult to resist the temptation to look for him.

* * *


	37. No more but her great misery bemoan

**A/N: So, do y'all really want to hear the usual plethora of excuses? No? Too bad, you're getting them anyway! I finally finished the most horrendous semester at school (with As and Bs! —happy dance—) and started working full-time (and overtime) at an office job, with managers watchful enough that I can't really work on my dear fanfiction when I don't have much to do (which is often). I also have my own apartment to take care of for the next 3 months, until my senior year of college starts.**

**So I've been lacking in the muse department, mostly because I've been busy with that loathsome thing called "real life." Plus, I have a _Sense and Sensibility_ fic that I've been trying to work on. And I should work on that novel, too. Oh, and I'm also re-writing APLoH. My mom thinks I never finished it, so I'm trying to fix it up and give it to her for her birthday. Anyway, I hope you skimmed all of the above. Just go read!**

**Oh, wait, one more thing---I'm not sure anymore what to do with this story. I have enough ideas floating around in my head to turn this into one _heck_ of a long sequel. Or I could cut it off and make the whole story into a trilogy. I'm not sure what to do yet, and I'm open for suggestions. **

* * *

"Nadir, as long as you don't get yourself killed by this madman, I don't care what it is, but _something _must be done!" She thrust the paper scrawled with Marguerite's handwriting under his nose. "If you know this man so very well, you ought to be able to think of something to do." 

"Paige, please calm down," Nadir said, holding up his hands defensively. "I cannot think of anything at all if you're in hysterics."

"I'm _not _in hysterics! Marguerite is the closest thing to a sister that I have ever had, and I will not stand to see her put in jeopardy by that lunatic you call a _friend_." She looked down at the letter. "I suppose I could find out from my brother where the Gautiers live…"

"No," Nadir said. "Stay out of it. This note was just to warn you, not to induce you to action."

She lifted her chin stubbornly and looked him right in the eye. "Very well then, what would you have me do?"

Nadir pointed to the letter. "Heed her advice, of course. Stay away from any possibility of meeting Erik. If I were a betting man, I would wager a great deal that he is not coming back here tonight. But all the same, I want you to be safe. I believe the best thing is for you to go to your brother's house tonight, and allow me to stay here—just as a precaution, should he truly surprise us and actually return to this place today."

Paige sighed. "I suppose you know him better than I."

The Persian chuckled sympathetically. "You know I adore your independent mind, my lovely Paige, but you should trust and listen to me this once."

"You know I _can_ take care of myself," she challenged.

Instead of being amused, the smile dropped from Nadir's mouth. "Not with this man. I _do _know him better than you, and if he is bent on harming someone, there is nothing you can do but at least _try _to avoid him."

Paige crumpled the note in her hands and tossed it sullenly into the fire. Placing her hands on her hips, she said, "And why on earth would he want to harm _me?_"

Exasperated, Nadir sighed and said, "It is nothing against you, I'm sure, but if he _were _to come back and expect his wife…and not find her…then he will probably, thanks to his outlandish temper, blame you for it somehow. I don't know how _you _feel about that, but I rather think it is something to be avoided."

"So that's all you're going to do?" Paige asked. "Send me to Michel's, and then sit around here and wait, and _maybe_ he'll come back?"

Nadir cocked his head and stared at her thoughtfully. "I only want you to be safe. But you seem to have invested a great deal of your heart into this matter."

"I told you," Paige said, folding her arms and looking down at her shoes, "Marguerite has been like a younger sister to me. I never had one of my own…or any children." She met his gaze again. "But I was there for her after Solange's birth, at your request. Can you fault me for becoming attached to them?"

Nadir shook his head with a melancholy smile. "All right, Paige—what do _you _think I should do instead?"

For a moment, she only stood quietly, grinding her teeth. Finally she sighed and said, "I don't want you to get hurt…but if you know him so well, can't you think of someplace he would go? Could you go talk to him?"

His smile tipped sideways. "You've read my mind most acutely."

Paige's eyes widened, and her mouth opened slightly. "_Do_ you know where he is?"

With a lift of his eyebrows, Nadir said, "Oh, indeed. I have a few ideas. If he's where I _think _he is, there really is very little to worry about. If he's gone elsewhere…" He sighed wearily. "But if he has gone where I hope he hasn't…"

Paige's shoulders sagged. "Are you going to tell me where _that _may be?"

He was silent for a moment, and then said, "I haven't time to explain it all." With that, he grabbed his hat and quickly left the room.

"Nadir, wait!" Paige ran to the entryway as he opened the front door and rushed outside. She stopped on the front step as he walked at a brisk pace down the sidewalk. "Where are you going?" she called after him.

Over his shoulder, he said, "The opera house. Get to your brother's…I will see you after."

In a heartbeat, she realized what that meant.

Alone…With a madman.

"Nadir, _no!_"

* * *

"Did you know about this?" 

She shook her head, closing her red-rimmed eyes. "I swear," she rasped, "I had no idea. Do you think I would have intended it to happen this way if I _had _planned it?"

Standing up to his full height, her husband moved to the window and stared out onto the sweeping green lawn of their family estate. The children were playing ball with some of the servants. It was such a beautiful day outside—too beautiful for a situation such as this. He turned his blue eyes up toward a matching sky, silently begging for an explanation from heaven. The tranquil, harmless white clouds and the warm sunshine seemed to mock him. Groaning heavily, he leaned forward and pressed his brow against the glass.

"This cannot be happening."

"I didn't mean for it to," she said, punctuating her sentence with a sniffle.

"Yes, Christine, I know." He walked back to the chair and sat down, burying his face in his hands. "But what are we going to do?"

"It's all right," she said, coming over to stand beside him, stroking his sandy hair. "I…I think it is. _Please_ don't be angry with me."

"How can I be angry at you for long?" He lowered his hands and stared into his wife's coffee-colored eyes as she crouched down beside him. "I believe you, but…" He glanced at the letter in her hands. "Can we afford to just sit here and _wait_ for something to happen?"

Christine looked down at the paper as well. "I think so. Where would we go, the city? The children will want to know what is going on, and there is no possible way to explain it to them." Her shoulders began to shake, and she leaned against him. "Raoul, please…I don't want him to come for me again!"

"'Do not seek him out,'" he quoted from the letter. "'Do not involve any outsiders.' Then what the devil has she left for us to do?"

"That poor girl," Christine murmured. "I can't imagine what she must be going through." She folded and unfolded Marguerite's note nervously. "How did she know? He wasn't there with her when…when I saw him."

"I could send a note to Henri," Raoul offered dryly. "He's been wanting to go after the Opera Ghost for years now. I don't think his desire for her has receded with time. He probably would be eager for a confrontation."

"Raoul, _no!_"

"Don't worry, that was only a tasteless joke." He cleared his throat. "Christine…I'll never understand why you want to spare his life. You are terrified of him possibly coming after us again, and yet you are convinced this Marguerite loves him."

She turned away from him, fresh tears trickling from her eyes.

"Christine, look at me."

She did.

"Don't you realize that I have been right all along? I _hate_ it that I've been right, but it's true: Even yet while he walks this earth, he haunts us, and he will continue to do so for the rest of our lives, in one form or another. This ghost cannot be exorcised. Only through his death will we have any peace."

"No, no," Christine moaned, shaking her head. "I cannot let that happen. Please, Raoul. I thought my soul would be irredeemable if I assisted in his death. How much worse if I do so knowing there is a woman in this world whose heart would be shattered if he was killed?"

Raoul looked into her face with darkened, cynical eyes. "Are you speaking of yourself?"

Furious, Christine stood up and stepped back, flinging the crumpled letter at him. "I speak of Marguerite, as you are well aware, Raoul de Chagny! Don't pretend to be betrayed when I pledged my life and love to you years ago!"

She turned her back on him and, placing a hand against her brow, moved toward the window. Already she was regretting her angry words. Raoul, like Erik, had given her everything he had. He had given her his love, his children, and his fortune. Unlike Erik, Raoul never terrified her, never asked for anything impossible, and never made her feel inadequate, even early on, when his family had not approved of their marriage. So patient and considerate with the children and her own dark past, Christine had expected a little more sympathy from her husband in this new outbreak of horror.

"You cannot deny that there is a small part of yourself I have never known," Raoul said, bleakly staring at the dejected piece of paper on the floor. "I have never had your whole heart, Christine. You said you do not love him, and I believed you. But this unholy bond…you cannot pretend it doesn't exist."

"I never did," she said, "and you will never understand." She jabbed a finger vehemently at her chest. "_I _don't understand! Raoul, I would not trade places with Marguerite Gautier—du Fleuve—whatever it is—for anything. If you cannot believe that, I don't know how else to convince you."

Raoul watched her levelly for a few moments before saying, "Let me protect my family the way I believe I must."

Fingering the lacy curtain, Christine took a deep breath and said, "I have often heard of soldiers returning to their wives and lovers after a war, unable to tell them everything that has happened. They can discuss certain…events, certain portions of what they have seen only with those who were there, as well." She turned her head and met Raoul's eyes. "It does not mean they love their wives and families any less. It means that the soldiers can find the sympathy they need only with those who suffered as they did." She looked out the window again, at the children playing.

"I was a prisoner of war, Raoul; you will never experience what I have felt. I cannot make you see things my way, but I don't blame you for that. It is simply impossible. And I have no comrade to commiserate with me—I was completely alone." She bit her lip before continuing, "The only one who might understand is Marguerite herself…but she and I had rather different experiences."

She let the curtain fall back into place. "My love, I only ask for your patience and trust. I'm confused, not unfaithful. Please don't mistake the two."

* * *

His skin prickling, Nadir glanced up at the damp, stone walls. From a distance, he could hear the lapping water of the subterranean lake. His next footfall brought a sickening crunch to his ears; he had stepped on a rat skull. He shivered with disgust and kept walking. At least in Persia, the shah's ridiculous assortment of cats had been good for _something_. 

Nadir gasped when he stepped out of the passageway and into what had been the foyer of Erik's lair. The space had been stripped of everything that was not already nailed down. The velvet hangings, smaller pieces of art, sheet music, candles, and writing instruments were gone. From what he could see, only the desk, a couch, a large Greek sculpture, and the pipe organ remained.

And just as the Persian had expected, a haggard black shape was hunched over the instrument.

_The more things change_… he thought cynically to himself. He did not announce his presence. Even in this pathetic state, Erik would hear him and know he was there. The Phantom, in fact, was more coherent than Nadir had expected. His great green eyes, vacant and bloodshot, met his friend's, and he spoke without a greeting.

"You've heard—you must have, you would not be here otherwise." He looked away. "Did she beg you for help? Send you, perhaps?"

"Who?" Nadir asked.

"Marguerite, you fool! She must have told you. Why else would you be here?"

Nadir calmly clasped his hands behind his back. "What exactly have I been told?"

This remark received a hateful glare from Erik, but fortunately that was as far as his violence extended. "That I recently encountered a ghost from my past…and laid the burden on my wife's shoulders."

There was a twitch in Nadir's stomach, and a feeling of dread began to seep into his blood. All he knew was from Marguerite's letter to Paige, and it had revealed no details. What was Erik about to confess to doing to his beloved wife?

"I knew about the ghost," he said, trying his best to remain composed. "But nothing else." When he received only silence, he swallowed and continued. "There was some concern for your whereabouts. I was afraid you had gone to the de Chagny estate," Nadir said.

"For another glimpse at the source of my torture?" Erik grumbled. "I think not."

Nadir's smile was cool and humorless. "You never did have any qualms about such self-inflicted abuse before."

"No, but I might inflict some on _you _if you do not keep your mouth shut!" He turned his back on Nadir, gently fingering the organ keys, but resisting the desire to play. It had been years since he had touched this instrument. The piano and violin were beautiful in their own distinct ways, but _this! _He had forgotten how much he loved its sound, and never realized how he had missed it. This, perhaps, would serve as adequate solace for a while.

A while.

Erik looked back at Nadir. "You understand, daroga, you _must _keep your mouth shut. Did you tell her you were coming here?"

"Paige knows that I have come. I have not seen your wife today, Erik. Though she very well may have _guessed_, I don't believe she knows for certain where you've been hiding."

Erik nodded. "Just as well. You shall not tell her. She cannot know."

"For heaven's sake, why not?"

Swallowing, Erik's fingers began to tremble as they traced the instrument. It was not the principal reason that he had fled from Paige Lambert's house and taken cover in his old haunting grounds. However, as he sat and dwelled upon his past and their present-day woes, he realized what else could be done. Nadir, of course, would not see things his way. Erik was under no obligation to convince him, but the former daroga might very well turn right around and report to Marguerite everything Erik was about to tell him. Perhaps he should not let Nadir in on his decision.

To hell with it.

Erik took a few deep breaths before he was even able to speak again. "I don't want her to find me." When Nadir rolled his eyes, he added, "Ever again." At the shock on his friend's face, Erik spoke more quickly. "You realize she's better off without me. She always has been, and now she can finally have that chance." He looked up at Nadir with reddened eyes. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

It was the Persian's turn to fall into speechlessness. He shook his head and took a step back from Erik. He sputtered and fumed for a moment until the words finally tumbled out.

"For Allah's sake, man, have you gone even _further _into madness? You cannot tell me you're prepared to leave her _now_, with a three-year-old daughter and another baby on the way! Have you _no_ love for her? Do you still mean to pursue this wretched, futile dream of having Christine de—"

"This isn't—about—_Christine!_" He clenched his eyes shut, as though every word brought a spasm of pain. "All right, it is, but it's not what you think."

"I _cannot _believe it, Erik! Do you know how much Marguerite has given to you? Do you _realize_ how difficult it is to love a person like you—?"

"_No one knows as well as I do, daroga!_" Erik thundered, springing up from his seat. "That's why I cannot allow her to bear the burden any longer. She may do with her life—and her children—as she wishes. If she wants to go back to the house in the country, she may have it. Any money I have is hers. Solange must continue her music lessons. All that much you may tell her." His temper cooling, he sat back down on the bench.

"But I…I will stay here." He tilted his head back slightly and looked up at the ceiling—dark, dank, and spotted with spiders. "I realize now, this is the only place in the world where I belong…because it is my haven away from the world."

Nadir sighed, looking overwhelmed. "You are making a terrible mistake, Erik. I thought you loved her."

"I'm doing this _because _I love her. I love her too much to let her throw away her life and her children's lives by spending them with me. I want her to be _free_. I set Christine free years ago, but I never really let her go. Marguerite is my second chance to do so. I can let her go—and she can have a second chance of her own." His expression was pleading. "Tell her all that for me, Nadir. Please. You won't have to do another thing for me all the rest of my life."

Nadir stared at Erik and wondered if he was misreading him—his weary posture, his tone of defeat. Panic and realization bloomed in his chest, and he leaned forward to ask, in as calm a voice as he could maintain, "Erik…why are you doing this? Why are you asking me? Are you…dying?"

Erik answered this solemn inquiry with a disdainful snort. "I have been _dying_ since the day I was born, daroga. I doubt the process is speeding up now."

With a sound of both relief and exasperation, Nadir straightened his posture again. "Then why are you giving up on life?"

"I am merely conceding to the inevitable. I'm grateful that I have been able to put it off for over four years, but I should have known it could never last. I'm doing this for her, you understand. We were never meant to be; I can only bring her suffering. She'll be much better off, much happier, without me. _Please_, daroga, stop _meddling!_ Just do ask I ask of you, for once!"

_For once_…

Nadir shook his head in disbelief. He could not imagine how Erik had come to this conclusion, that this was his best—his only—option. Was he still so convinced that no one in this world could ever love him enough? For a man devoid of so many things that other humans took for granted, Erik was certainly difficult to please. In spite of all the time and effort, and all the poetry about the power and magic of love…human nature was still so incredibly difficult to alter. One of the most beautiful things a man could encounter in all the world was love. But it could not change everything. It seemed even love had its limitations.

He watched Erik, wondering if the man had changed at all since that first day he had seen him in Russia, when he summoned the great magician to Persia, by order of the shah. Passionate, brilliant, profound, and hungry for beauty in all forms. Selfish, demanding, stubborn, and prone to unfathomable anger.

He was abandoning her. If it were a war, he would be shot for desertion. But was this act Erik was now attempting really so selfish? From what Nadir could see, Erik was wholly concerned for his wife. It appeared he truly did have the very best of intentions. But it was wrong, and Nadir did not know how to convince him of that.

One thing was certainly true; Nadir would never be able to tell Marguerite everything Erik wanted him to tell.

"You know she will not be happy, Erik. I doubt you bring her bliss, but she loves you. Even with all the difficulties, I'm sure she would rather be with you than without."

"It is too much," Erik said. "It is too much. She doesn't need all that."

Nadir shrugged. "I will tell her, then. She won't thank you that's for sure."

"She will eventually understand," Erik said. "She will thank me later."

Knowing he would get no further with the man that day, Nadir turned on his heel and left the way he had come.

* * *


	38. A Friend and Father

**A/N: YAY! I promised my best friend that I would update before she left for her month overseas, and I kept that promise! But unfortunately…**

* * *

"Darling, you had better get up now." Her mother's voice broke through a confusing dream.

Pulled into wakefulness, Marguerite's eyes fluttered open. She stared at Isabelle, for a moment forgetting where she had been sleeping, and why.

"Mama?" She said uncertainly. Another few seconds helped to clear her head. Of course—it all came back to her. Somehow, with the barrier of sleep between herself and the day's earlier events, everything looked a little more hopeful. She could not explain it, but she was certain that things were about to be repaired. She was not ready to jump to her feet and dance about, singing about how wonderful her life was, but it did not seem nearly as dark as it had been. "How long have I been asleep?"

Isabelle smiled. "Oh, a few hours, I suppose. I looked in on you earlier and saw Solange awake and fussing. I didn't want her to disturb you, or get into anything she shouldn't, so I took the liberty of bringing her back downstairs with me, so we could become better acquainted."

She cleared her throat and her expression turned solemn. "I would have let you sleep as long as you wanted, but I forgot, until moments ago, that your father is bringing some associates with him later for dinner. I thought you might like to freshen up in time to join us."

Marguerite's heart beat faster at the thought of seeing her father after so many years. Might he really be willing to forget it all, or at least forgive? She never forgot that he had wronged her years ago, but she had not been completely innocent, either. She had willfully deceived him, though it had been utterly necessary to avoid being wrongfully accused of murder—something she had not completely avoided anyway! As with her mother, Marguerite could not tell Francois Gautier much about what had been happening to her in the past few years. Besides, he had always refused to believe in the Opera Ghost. Surely he would not accept the idea that his daughter had become so intimately involved with the legendary fellow.

Then, she remembered the reason she had been afraid to reenter Paris at all—or rather, one of several reasons. Would Henri Laroche be one of the "associates" at their house tonight? Henri knew almost everything that had happened before Marguerite and Erik had left Paris, everything that mattered. She knew she would not be hanged for murder; did Henri have anything to do with that? If Henri had revealed everything to Francois, then Francois surely would have told his wife. And Isabelle had seemed completely innocent of the whole ordeal.

This realization made Marguerite feel a bit—just a bit—better.

She smiled at her mother. "Where is she now?"

Isabelle shook her head, looking disbelieving. "She's reading, or at least she thinks she is. I put a book in front of her, just out of curiosity. She's sitting there now, holding the book as though she knows exactly what she's doing with it." She raised a delicate finger of warning at her daughter. "I must say, however, that you had better teach that little imp of yours some manners! If you are going to stay in Paris for a decent length of time, I can take that duty."

"What makes you say that?" Marguerite asked, standing up.

"_Well_, when I asked her if she _could_ read, and if she might please show me, she just gave me this horrid, angry glare, as though I had deeply _insulted _her! I'd never seen such a young child look that way."

Marguerite sighed. "I can promise you, that was something she learned from her father. I don't know if she can read yet or not. I haven't seen any evidence of it, so…" She waved one hand dismissively. "Besides, she's only three-and-a-half years old. It would be wrong to expect too much of her at this age, would it not?"

Isabelle placed a hand on her arm. "My dear, I heard her play on that piano when you first came into this house. I do not believe you have an ordinary child there."

Marguerite laughed. "No, not with her lineage. I never expected one." Lightly touching her mother's arm, she added, "Thank you for calling my attention to her rudeness. I shall take care from now on to make certain she learns proper courtesy. You needn't be too concerned about it."

She could not explain her relatively high spirits. Erik had only demonstrated a fit of temper, and she had suffered little, really. In fact, by now she was sure that he had fled the room, and the house, to avoid harming her further. His expression had certainly looked remorseful. Marguerite's fear was all but gone. All that remained to contend with was his frightening Solange, and she was sure he could muster a proper apology to his daughter for that. What was important was that the little girl understood that her parents still loved each other, and loved her.

For a moment, she had a troublesome fear about where Erik had gone when he left Paige Lambert's house, but she pushed it aside. Back at their country house, he had left her before, only to return with a fresh perspective and a clearer head. This was not the first obstacle they had met; why was she treating it as such? Even when the thought of Christine entered her mind, Marguerite again moved it away. Christine was a vision, an idea long past. She was no longer real to Erik, not really. He would not have married Marguerite and remained with her for four years if he had not wanted to. Erik had never been the sort of man to do anything like that.

Particularly if he returned to the opera house, what she considered the likeliest place, he would see things plainly. Returning to that vile, lonely place would only remind him of the horrid life he had left behind, and how much he had gained. Long ago, he had said himself that he would be foolish to give up his wife for such a dead dream.

The only thing that _really _worried her, Marguerite told herself, was to where he would return—_when _he returned.

Even the idea of seeing Henri again did not bother her so much after a second thought. Henri never wanted to harm her, and Erik was not here to be a threat to him. And if he wanted to find Erik, well, Marguerite could honestly say she did not know for _sure _where that might be. Still, she knew it would be far, far better for everyone involved if she did _not_ see him, ever again.

It was with a lightened heart that Marguerite came across Solange, still sitting just as Isabelle had described.

"What have you there, my little scholar?" she asked the child.

"A book," Solange answered, holding it up for Marguerite's inspection.

"I see." She took the slim volume and smiled in recognition. "_Petit_, I read this book when I was little, too. It was one of my favorites! Would you like me to read you some of it?"

"_Oui_, _Maman_," Solange answered.

For about half an hour, Marguerite read to her daughter, and then supervised a small meal. She left her in the hands of a maid who eagerly promised to look after her while Marguerite was having dinner with her parents and her father's acquaintances. She thought about sending another note to Paige, telling her all was well, should Erik return and ask for her. However, Marguerite decided against it. Erik would probably guess, eventually, where she had been all day. He would not really need to be told.

"You have certainly cheered up," Isabelle said to her daughter while glancing over a letter she had received earlier that day.

"For some reason, everything looks…brighter," Marguerite replied. She glanced out the window. Even the skies had opened up and let the sunshine pour down upon the city. "I mean from within, as well as without."

"Well, that is good news indeed. Will you return to your husband tonight, then?"

Marguerite thought it over for a few moments. "No, I think I will stay here for the night still, if it's not too much trouble. It might be best if we had a little more time, just to think things over." She chewed her lip, thinking of something else. Finally she said, "Mama, if you don't mind, I think I would prefer it if you did not mention anything to Hen—to anyone about Solange. I would like to keep her safe, you know, with everything still rather hostile between myself and the D'Aubigne family."

"Oh, dear, I hadn't thought of that," Isabelle said. "Well, if you think that is best, then I shall certainly respect that decision. She is, after all, _your_ daughter." She smiled. "And a darling thing indeed."

Marguerite laughed again. "That is certainly not a biased opinion, is it?"

"Certainly not!"

The two women shared a laugh until Isabelle looked at the clock. "Oh, my, they'll be here soon! Are you ready? Does that gown fit you well enough?"

"Yes, quite," Marguerite said, standing up and smoothing the skirt. It was strange indeed, having to change into a dinner dress of her mother's. Besides being too small, all her old clothes were atrociously out of style. Marguerite certainly did not want to embarrass her parents in any way, if she could help it, during their first evening as a family again.

_What is a family, anyway?_ It came suddenly to Marguerite's thoughts, taking her aback. _This is not _really _your family anymore_. _Solange and Erik—they are your family_._ Why are you not acting like it?_

As with all the others, Marguerite tried her best to ignore the disconcerting thoughts.

_Tonight,_ she told herself. _After tonight, everything will be all right_.

"There is his carriage," Isabelle said, peering out of the window. "Marguerite, go back into the study, and I will tell him first that you are here. Then he can go back there and see you again before the others get here for dinner. Hopefully his shock will wear off in time. Go now, hurry, hurry! He's only moments away. Oh, what will he say to seeing you again!"

What would he say, indeed? Marguerite stepped away from her mother and did as she was told, her hands shaking as she reached for the doorknob. What on earth was she to expect from her father? She heard the front door open, and the greeting of a maid who must have taken his hat and whatever else he may have carried. Her stomach lurched when she heard his voice. She had almost forgotten what it sounded like. Glancing up, she caught her reflection in the mirror. It was pale, with frighteningly wide eyes.

After her mother's muffled voice, a heavy, tense silence drifted from the parlor, and Marguerite knew Isabelle had just given her husband the news. Filled with nervous energy, she walked across the unlit room, over to the fireplace, and leaned against the mantle. She heard nothing. At last, the door opened, and she turned around swiftly.

The last four years had left their mark. Her father's dark hair was thickly sprinkled with gray, likewise the beard he had not had before. Among the whiskers, his mouth was firmly set, with no hint of a smile. However, in his eyes, lined more deeply than she remembered, she thought she saw a glimmer of warmth that gave her hope. Staring at him, she could not find her voice, and instead stood waiting.

"What are you doing standing in the darkness, Marguerite?" he said. "Come on out of there and into the parlor. Our dinner guests will be here at any moment."

With that, he turned around and left again, leaving Marguerite confounded. Blinking a few times, pinching herself to make sure it was really happening, she followed him out of the room. He stood at an ornate side table, calmly sipping from a crystal goblet. Marguerite glanced at her mother, silently begging for an explanation. Isabelle only smiled back, as though all was right with the world.

Swallowing his drink, Gautier looked at his daughter and said, "I see you're wearing your mother's gown. I suppose your old things would not fit after having a child—a child I shall have to meet later on."

She could not bear the small talk any longer. "_Papa_," she said imploringly, taking several steps toward him. "Have you found it in your heart—"

He set the glass down upon the table and squared his shoulders. "_Non_, Marguerite."

She stopped walking and cocked her head. "No?" she whispered.

"You are here now. What's done is done, and we will not speak of it. _Comprenez-vous?_"

They stared at each other for several heavy moments until she nodded.

"Very good. Now, our dinner guests should be arriving at any"—the doorbell rang—"moment." He smiled this time and gestured toward the door. "There they are now."

All the security she had felt in the past few hours curled up into a ball in Marguerite's head and dropped straight down into her stomach, where it remained for the rest of the night. She stared at her mother with an expression of terror as her father stepped toward the doorway. The maid led the guests into the parlor, and Marguerite looked away, taking several deep breaths, before she turned to look at them.

"M and Mme Labrie, may I introduce my daughter, Marguerite—?"

"Du Fleuve," she finished for him. "How do you do."

"And you know my wife Isabelle, of course."

"Yes, of course, good evening, Mme Gautier," M Labrie said.

Other greetings and niceties were exchanged for a few minutes. Marguerite brushed off her own husband's absence with a remark about a sick relative. Nowadays, of course, no one in the upper societal circles really cared where someone else's spouse was having dinner, or whom they may have been visiting.

"You're looking marvelously well lately, Mme Gautier," said Silvia Labrie. She glanced at Marguerite. "I do believe I can see a resemblance between the two of you. She has your eyes."

"Thank you," Marguerite and Isabelle said simultaneously, smiling afterwards.

"I tell you, Mme du Fleuve, I can't imagine leaving the countryside for the city at a time like this." She glanced out the window. "The miserable heat is almost upon us. I've been trying to convince Olivier that we ought to go south to the Mediterranean until autumn, but he _hates_ to travel. Even on the locomotive, it's no time at all, and still he absolutely refuses. I declare I don't know what I shall do with him!"

Marguerite only sipped her beverage and said nothing. Isabelle at least pretended to be interested in her friend's chatter.

"You _know_ what the warm weather is like," the chastised Olivier spoke up from his conversation with Francois Gautier. "They're laying even more road this year, and there's more demand for us, and I cannot leave my managers unsupervised for more than a week. Would you have me testing the carriages in the dead of winter instead, just so you can join your silly friends down south?" The only response he received was an exasperated roll of his wife's eyes, and he went back to his own conversation.

"Oh, _honestly_," Silvia huffed. She leaned a little closer to Marguerite to explain, "My husband manufactures carriages. Everyone says he's very dedicated, but I believe I would rather call it _obsessed!_" She sighed. "He's been going on and on lately about an engine some German built a few years ago, saying that soon it's going to lead to a brand-new sort of carriage. But I don't know about that." She shrugged. "What does _your _husband do, Mme du Fleuve?"

"He's a composer," Marguerite said automatically, barely even looking at the other woman.

"Really! Oh, that's lovely. What sort of pieces does he compose? Have I heard any of them?"

"You might have, perhaps," Marguerite said vaguely. "He does just about anything, I suppose…"

"Marguerite," Isabelle said, "you told me he used to be an actor, did you not?"

"Oh…yes, I did…I mean, he was."

"Extraordinary!" Mme Labrie said. "Where did he perform?"

"Erm…"

Marguerite frantically tried to think of the name of a single reputable theater in Paris besides the opera house itself. She was failing miserably, and her thoughts only became more frantic when the doorbell rang again.

"Ah, that'll be Henri," Francois said as everyone rose to their feet.

Placing a hand over her belly, Marguerite challenged her knees to stay straight and not to fail her. Her vision wavered for a moment, and she was terrified of fainting. She closed her eyes and gripped the back of her chair when she heard footsteps coming toward the parlor. She prayed so hard, her lips almost moved with her thoughts.

_Dear God, please don't let it be Henri_. _Let it be anyone else—Marcel's family, or the Vicomte, or Erik, or Lucifer himself_. _Please, please don't let it be Henri_…_How am I to bear it? I don't know if I can take any more surprises today, what with Erik and Father and_…

Directly after that came a slightly more sensible prayer: _Please Lord, if it must be Henri, then do not let him say anything foolish_._ Give him the strength to overcome his shock, if he feels any_.

She opened her eyes to discover that God had chosen _not _to answer the first.

And when she saw Henri Laroche staring at her as though she was the only person in the room, she doubted the second prayer would yield better results.

* * *

**A/N: First off: Yes, she's pregnant again, so Marguerite is having mood swings almost to rival Christine's!**

**Secondly: I know it's a cliffhanger...Please don't kill me! **


	39. Desperate Temptation

**A/N: I hate my job.**

**But I love _this_! I'm excited. I've gone a bit off-track, but I'm having more fun, I think, than should be allowed.**

* * *

It was a long, long time before she could even speak. 

Her parents and the Labries failed to notice Henri's stunned expression or his rigid stance, and they greeted him cheerfully.

"Oh, M Laroche, what a pity your wife is not here!" Silvia Labrie crooned in what may well have been a genteel lie. That little remark even further delayed Marguerite's reaction. It also seemed to bring Henri out of his trance, flooding his face with a humiliated blush. His smile was slight and false as he addressed Mme Labrie.

"Yes, Celine is in Venice, visiting her family there. I had planned to join her, but M Gautier and I—and of course, M Labrie—thought we should make the most of the opera's off-season to more definitely decide on our plans for the theater."

All this was spoken with only a perfunctory glance at Mme Labrie, and an even briefer acknowledgement of the men. The rest of the time, his eyes were fixed on Marguerite. Though she wished she could try, Marguerite found herself also unable to look away.

_Get out of here_, a voice rang inside her head. _No good can come of this_. _Find Erik_…_Take Solange, and get out of here_. _You _know _where he is_…_you have to find him_.

No, she could not. Henri was no real threat to her, and Erik had not sought her out to apologize. Though fully prepared and willing to forgive him, Marguerite could not put this episode aside.

Four years had not been unkind to Henri Laroche. He appeared a little care-worn, particularly around his light brown eyes, but it only contributed to an expression of distinguished maturity he would not otherwise possess. Some time ago, he had abandoned the carefully-trimmed moustache for a clean shave, bringing his prominent nose and solemn, thin mouth further into focus. The wind-swept hair, however, had not been tidied after the ride in an open carriage. He had never been a devastatingly handsome man—Marcel, in fact, had been better-looking. Internally, however, it was quite the reverse.

"Henri, you remember my daughter, Marguerite…du Fleuve," Gautier said. Though he did not look at Marguerite, or she at him, she heard a distinct tone in her father's voice that she was unable to understand. Was he warning Henri? There was, indeed, something intimidating in his words, though she was at a loss to explain it.

"Very well indeed," Henri said. "I am all astonishment, _madame_, in finding you here. I had no idea you were even in Paris. The surprise, however," he added, his small smile now genuine, "is not in any way unpleasant."

Marguerite pressed her lips together, frantically thinking of something to say before realizing everyone else in the room must have been curious about his manner. Her gaze darted around the room, but there was little else to capture her attention for long.

"I hope you have been well, M Laroche," she finally said, her voice sounding raspy, as though she had not used it for hours, even days.

His expression hardened slightly when he asked, "And how is your husband, _madame_? I gather he is not in this house at present."

"He is attending to some personal matters this afternoon," she said defensively.

Unfortunately, at this moment, Mme Labrie chose to speak up. "Are you acquainted with M du Fleuve, M Laroche? Mme du Fleuve was just telling us that he is a composer. I have been trying to think of where I may have come across his music."

Desperately wishing that she had spoken far fewer words since stepping into this house, Marguerite gritted her teeth and glared at the older woman.

"Is he?" Henri said glancing pointedly at Gautier. This silent exchange did not escape Marguerite, who became further confused and alarmed.

"Ladies," Isabelle said, a little too eagerly, "would you care for a game of cards? Dinner should be ready before long."

"Yes," Gautier said, "Henri, leave the ladies to their diversions. Come and join in our talk. We must listen to your ideas, after all. You told me you had several."

Though the sexes were divided in the room, resigned to their separate activities, the tension—inexplicable to all but two, perhaps three of the party—did not dissipate. Marguerite felt Henri's eyes upon her almost the entire time. The men were discussing possible architectural repairs and improvements to the _Opéra Populaire_'s exterior, and some of the more often used sections of the interior. She found their conversation a vast deal more interesting than what her mother and Silvia Labrie were chatting about, especially when the men then started debating which new masterpieces would be the most profitable to perform in the next season.

Her head jerked up when she heard Labrie mention something about the _corps du ballet_, but it was only a passing remark, and she gained no other information about it. Regrettably, when she looked toward the trio of men, Henri chose the same moment to look back at her. Heat flooded her face as she turned away again, trying to concentrate on the game. How dare he come here! How dare he stare at her and speak to her as though expecting her to be delighted to see him!

Marguerite had never been very good at cards, and she failed miserably at this game, much to Mme Labrie's delight.

"Oh, my dear, if you are going to be in Paris for a while, you shall have to learn to do far better than _that_." She giggled, too immaturely for her age.

In a horrible effort to disguise her contempt, Marguerite stood up and excused herself from the room to freshen up a little before dinner, her true intention, of course, to check on Solange. Passing through the study and into the back hall, she came across the maid, Emilia, and Solange, in the butler's pantry. The child was scribbling on some extra newspaper the maid had scrounged up, and looking well entertained.

"All is well?" Marguerite asked Emilia.

"Very well, _madame_," the maid answered, "though I don't know how long I shall be able to keep her occupied for a great deal longer. She's a very clever little thing."

"Can you read?" Marguerite asked.

When Emilia nodded, the pride evident on her face, Marguerite recommended the book she had been reading aloud to Solange earlier. Giving her daughter a kiss on her cheek, she headed back, regretfully, to the dinner party.

She should have known better, she realized, than to go off on her own while Henri was still in the house.

He was waiting for her in the study, standing alone at the fireplace.

"I must again express my utter delight and surprise in seeing you here," he murmured.

"Oh…thank you," she said clumsily. Stunned, she had stopped, rather than passing him quickly and on to the parlor.

He lost his grip on the mantle and, wringing his hands, took a step toward her. "Marguerite, there are things I must tell you before we part ways tonight—after which I might never see you again, something I cannot bear to imagine."

"_Monsieur_," she interrupted, "I'm sure you're very kind, but I do not be—"

"For years, I have loved no one but you," he cut in pleadingly.

The words were not quite so surprising as they were frightening and disappointing. _Is this how Erik felt about Christine?_ Marguerite wondered. _Has Henri never changed his mind, either?_

Aloud, she said, "You are married, Hen—M Laroche."

"Please," he said, "I beg you not to remind me. It was a situation socially expedient for both of us, and my parents approve of her very much. I can't pretend that there was any affection involved, but for the very beginning, perhaps." He exhaled, shaking his head a little in disbelief, or it might have been confusion. "I never forgot you, Marguerite, though I long ago gave up hope of seeing you again. You could not possibly know how elated I am to be standing before you at this moment."

"_Monsieur_, you cannot tell me these things," she finally said. "You did so before, if you'll recall. I was married then, and I am still. _That_ match was certainly not 'socially expedient' as yours was. Indeed, it has been anything _but_. However, it was a marriage made from love, and a promise I cannot break." She brought a hand up over her eyes. "You never _would _believe me about Erik. I don't know what else I could tell you to make you understand that I love him, and I will defend him from any harm if I possibly can."

"And he loves you?"

Marguerite frowned, sensing the course this conversation was at risk of taking and not sure how to steal the reins. Unfortunately, this made her pause, which sent a certain message to the man standing before her.

"Marguerite," Henri said, looking as though he was very close to begging her on bended knee, "I will not deny that I have been always plagued with prejudices against your—husband—due to his rather destructive and, I daresay, legendary past."

He stepped a little closer, lowering his voice. "But if you can swear to me, on your life and your honor, that he has never shown you any of the cruelty he was known to be capable of—indeed, that he demonstrated upon _me_, for which I have not quite forgiven him—and if you swear that he has consistently treated you with the tenderness and devotion that a lady such as yourself deserves…then I promise to leave you alone forever, as you wish, and may our paths never cross again."

This time, Marguerite could not bring herself to look him in the face. She stared at the carpet, into the fireplace, at her hands, anywhere to give herself an extra moment to think of an answer that might satisfy him. Whatever she said, it was none of his business, really. But he had no way of knowing how deeply his words cut her, dug at her, and threaten to expose far more than she would have wanted.

Too much time had passed by now; she had to speak.

Her throat would not obey her.

"Your silence, I believe, is answer enough," he said.

"There is no intention whatsoever in my silence!" she snapped, her face reddening

"What has he done to you?" Henri asked earnestly, his brow knitting with concern and barely concealed anger. "Has he threatened you with his cursed lasso? Has he laid a single unkind hand upon you? Marguerite, when I found you, and you told me you had married him, I immediately believed there had to be some coercion on his part, some perverse threat to you, to make you stay with him. I can see I have not been wrong."

"But for the fact that I keep telling you I love him, and I am with him of my own free will!" She lowered her voice partway through the exclamation, having momentarily forgotten their inconvenient location.

"Then give me the reply I have asked for. I have a conflict with him that has not been settled, for I maintain that he wronged me greatly all those years ago when he nearly _killed_ me. But…tell me once and for all that he has not been cruel to you, and I will give up the matter entirely."

Marguerite was speechless, for what could she say? If she was going to be honest, as she tried to be at every opportunity, then she would confess that yes, Erik had demonstrated some kind of malice and caused her several moments of grief. This was the most inopportune moment possible for reuniting with Henri. If it had been yesterday, she could have answered him with conviction that she had not suffered inordinately with Erik. But Henri's question made her pause and think over the morning's events with a fresh mind.

Something inside of her would not allow her to lie.

But she couldn't tell him the truth.

"Oh, Marguerite," Henri said. "If you're afraid to be honest, you needn't be. I will tell no one. I promise, you're safe with me."

He had promised to protect her before—from those who would wrongly accuse her. Would he follow through with his declarations? Close to feeling physical pain, she clenched her eyes shut. _Why can I not think of the correct thing to say? Why can't I just lie and be done with it?_

Something brushed against her cheek, making her jump and open her eyes. Henri was far, far too close to be appropriate.

"You have no right," she said, "to think you can simply come to my family's house and woo me away from my husband, particularly after all these years. Have you no respect at all? I am a married lady, _monsieur_, and you are behaving most improperly!"

"Improper," Henri echoed softly. "It seems to me far more improper that you are protecting a husband who fails to treat you the way you deserve."

"I have not spoken a word against him. Everything you think is nothing more than your own assumption."

"True. But if he was completely innocent, surely you would have said so yourself by now."

Marguerite's eyes widened as she stared at him, terrified from her weak attempts to defend Erik. Worst of all, she knew Henri was at least partly right. And when he brought his hands up to cup her face, every muscle in her body was tensed to flee, and yet she stayed perfectly still, unable to move.

"I…" She took a few deep breaths; her throat was on fire. "I…can't…tell you."

He stared at her for a short while, nodding.

"Here's what I think of 'improper,'" he said, tilting his head and covering her mouth with his.

Marguerite stopped thinking for a moment, her body relaxing and her eyelids closing before she could stop herself. Henri's arms came around her, and he felt warm, solid and alive. Reality seemed very, very far away, but her tears were closer as her breath merged with his. It seemed ages since she had shared such a loving moment, though not really that long ago. Her physical senses drowned out any cry of intelligence within her head, and she began to return the gesture. At her response, Henri sighed contentedly and moved one hand to cradle the back of her head.

That touch startled her, and Marguerite's reason came back in an instant. Shaking, she tore herself from his embrace and stepped back, almost unable to believe what she had just allowed to happen.

"I love you," Henri said, sounding choked. "I always have. I couldn't give it up, even when I married Celine, no matter how wrong that may have been."

Further shocking her, he went down on his knees and grasped her hands. "Marguerite, I wish to repeat the offer I gave you when we last spoke. This time, I'm not offering you sanctuary from conviction of a crime. I want to be your sanctuary from _him_. I stand by what I said long ago. Your love for him has blinded you. Never forget that I know who and what your husband is. Your being with him wouldn't matter to me, so long as I knew you were happy…but you are not. I can see the pain in your eyes."

She yanked her hands from his hold and turned away from him. She could not stop her violent trembling.

"Please, Marguerite, don't let me have loved you in vain all these years. I would let Celine take everything she wanted, if she would only let me be free to go away with you. I'll have sufficient funds to take you anywhere you want to go. Rome, London, St. Petersburg, New York…name it, and the world is yours. You would not have to worry about _him_ finding you. I would keep you safe. I would give you everything I have."

She could not speak. Fortunately, he began to consider it a refusal.

"Will you let my heart be ripped to shreds after I have offered it to you this way?" He got back on his feet, brushing off the knees of his trousers. "Say anything…only give me an answer, I beg of you."

After a dry sob, she said, "What do you expect me to say to that? I think you're mad if you've not changed one whit in these past few years…when you have been married, and I am married…but not to each other. You cannot do this to me, if you claim to love me. I told you back then that I love Erik, and I told you minutes ago. Perhaps I'm not euphorically happy every moment, but when has that ever been possible in this world?"

"Is that any reason to keep yourself from being better off than you are now?"

She frowned and turned back to face him. "Who are you to say I would be better off with you?" She took a step closer. "I have news for you, _monsieur_. I am carrying my husband's child within my body at this very moment. If you still insist upon my running away with you, you must consider _that_, as well." She lifted her eyes to meet his again, one hand placed protectively over her stomach. "Would you raise another man's progeny, Henri? Would you adore the mother and hate the child? If the baby is born with _his father's looks_, what will you do? Even if I were miserable enough to accept your offer, there are still these things to consider."

It was Henri's time to be speechless. His throat worked as he tried to swallow, and his chest quickly rose and fell.

"Is that the truth?"

"I cannot lie to you," she said. Though she _would_ if he asked her if this was their first child. She would conceal Solange's existence from him, whatever the cost. She knew not why, but something within her demanded it.

Henri cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back. "That would, indeed, complicate matters a bit."

Marguerite sighed and shook her head. "Care for your own household and your own difficulties, Henri. I cannot be blamed for you loving me. I have no power over it; believe me, if I did, I would not have made things this way. Leave me be."

She stepped toward the door, but he intercepted.

"You cannot think to pretend that kiss meant nothing," he whispered fervently. "I could feel it, Marguerite…You wanted it. You _needed _it. There's something lacking in your life. Please tell me you want me. Say yes, and standing before you will be the happiest man who ever lived."

She looked at him sadly. "Henri, I could never make you happy. I know you don't believe me, but it's true. Go back to your work, and then join your wife in Venice. You were wrong to kiss me like that, and I was horribly wrong to accept it. I have been more unfaithful to my husband in my own actions than he ever was to me."

Henri's eyes flashed. "Have you long distrusted his fidelity?"

She squinted at him, furious and almost disgusted by his eager tone. She refused to respond. Instead, she pushed past him and went back into the parlor, trying her best to ignore the stares of every other person in the room. Though she tried to fight it, her face warmed with a shameful blush.

No doubt her mother would have many questions for her later on.

* * *

"I am here to discover if you have made any change of plans," Nadir said, in answer to Erik's rude inquiry as to the purpose of a second visit that day. This time, Nadir had shown up well into the evening. 

"Why should I?" Erik asked irritably.

"No particular reason, only that…you might have come to your senses."

"How ironic. That is rather what I had hoped for _you_."

The two men fell into silence. Nadir watched Erik peruse the few books that had been left on the shelves, their leaves yellowed and moldy. He knew Erik was only trying to distract himself. Nadir wondered how long it would take before Erik's calm snapped and he either went out to look for Marguerite…or did something he would truly regret.

"I haven't spoken to her yet," Nadir finally said, after a long while. Erik's head came up abruptly, his piercing gaze fixed on Nadir's face. "Do you know where she is?"

Remembering himself, Erik turned away with a muttered, "No." Then he offered, "At Mlle Lambert's?"

"No. She is at her parents' house, with the Gautiers." He saw the muscles twitch in Erik's shoulders, under the dark cloth.

"Well," Erik said, reaching for a book to open. He grimaced at the rat-chewed paper, wishing they had not left Beatrice behind at the country house. Clearing his throat, he put the volume back on the shelf with less care than he had used to select it. "She did want to go visit them while we were here in the city."

Nadir nodded solemnly. "What if she decides to stay?"

Erik appeared not to hear him, but Nadir knew better.

"Could you go on living here, knowing your wife and child—_children_, eventually—were across the city, perhaps even a few blocks away? What of autumn, when the opera season starts again? How will that feel, I wonder…spying on Box Five, where your beloved sits without you, obviously heartbroken at being abandoned, and you watching her, knowing all the while that you are the cause—and the cure—of her misery. It must be wonderful to be able to abandon her with such a clear conscience."

Erik bristled and made a fist, but he did not turn around to look at the Persian. "It won't take her _that _long to recover," he said.

"You selfish bastard."

Nadir did not even see the fist hit his face, but only felt the explosion of pain and the impact of his body upon the floor. After blinking away the dizziness, he sat up with a grunt, tasting blood. He touched the corner of his mouth and saw the red fluid on his fingertips. Where _had _Erik hit him? His entire face felt shattered. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he glared up at his attacker.

"Don't call me _selfish!_" Erik growled at him.

"I meant every syllable," Nadir said. "It was well worth it." With a little bit of a struggle, he stood back up again and squared his shoulders. "You realize, of course, that…well, considering what you are now doing to Marguerite…you might just as well have abandoned her for Christine outright."

When Nadir left him for the second time that day, Erik managed to pretend for a while that he did not care, that the daroga's words had no effect on him. As he continued to idly occupy his hands, however, his mind was not so easily distracted.

He was by himself again. _Completely_. The last time he had been this alone…he was bruised and broken and flat on his back in a barn. Yet even then, Pierre's family was in a house across the yard…and Marguerite was on her way. No, he had not been so alone since Marguerite had fled from this very place all those years ago, before they were married—before he even knew he loved her.

What was worse was that, in his solitude, he had lost the desire to play. He did not even have his music as his sole companion. Without Marguerite and Solange as his constant reminders of the here and now, of the future he had, of the _hope_ he had, Erik's thoughts wandered back to Christine, further back into the past, dredging up feelings and memories that had been buried and fading for a long, long time. It was like biting into a fresh pastry and finding nothing but stale breadcrumbs in his mouth.

_Marguerite will be better off_…_They will both be better off_…_The _three _of them will be better off_…He had to keep reminding himself.

Erik, however, could not remember feeling worse in his life.

* * *

**A/N: I have been later in posting this than I had planned. The website was being difficult, first of all, and secondly, I am currently displaced from my apartment because it flooded in a horrible storm on Wednesday night (I am in NW Ohio, in case you wantedto know). Let me tell you...I no longer think Erik's lair is sexy. When I went back to the apartment with my uncle and waded through the place, and saw my carpet literally floating in no less than 3 inches of water, I realized that living someplace damp, watery, and underground is _not sexy_. Erik basically lives in a dark, flooded basement, except he has a pipe organ, and a gondola to cruise around in. That makes me even angrier that he left Marguerite. (Yes, I know they're sort of my characters and I'm making them do what I _want_ them to do. Just humor me here!)**


	40. Seek Shelter from the Storm

**A/N: OK, that last chapter got a few threats, which I understand. There were a couple other reactions I really was not expecting at all. I hope no one ends up being permanently angry with me. I mean, come on…this is based off of _Phantom of the Opera_…why (or how) would I give the main character a more depressing ending than what is already canon? But I have said too much already…**

**This chapter is a bit longer than usual, but it may be my last update for a while. Please review and let me know what you think!**

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The silence on her part was tense and chilled, a harsh warning against his approaching her again that evening. His silence toward her was weary and fearful. For the entire dinner, they never addressed a single word to each other. After the meal, the men and women went to separate rooms to conduct their conversations. Henri did not say goodbye to her when he left. 

It did not matter. Despite everything she had said to him, Marguerite knew she had not seen the last of Henri Laroche.

The other guests left, and she put Solange to bed, barely able to hum a little lullaby without choking up. She quickly forgot whatever excuse she gave to the child when she had asked after her father. Marguerite's parents retired for the night without asking awkward questions. Isabelle invited her to sleep as long as she wanted and leave as late as she wished. Marguerite was still afraid of the interrogation that might come the next day. Long after the lights had been extinguished, she remained awake, wondering about the future and pining for Erik.

Was there no limit to what a human being could endure in a single day? Surely it had not been only that morning when she left Paige's house…and Erik had disappeared. She rose from the bed and went to the window, looking down at the dark and silent street. Were it not for Solange, she would leave this house to go find him. He was at the opera house. By now, she was certain of that.

But she could not find him; she _would not_ return. He had not yet offered an apology or any attempt to make it up to her, and she simply could not allow him to get away with that. This was more than a battle of wits, and more than a triumph of the will—this was the risk of their entire future, their very lives.

Marguerite wondered if the Vicomte de Chagny had received her letter from earlier that day, and what he had chosen to do about it. Had Christine seen Erik at the same time? What might she be thinking now? Marguerite prayed with all her heart that Paige had gotten her note and shared it with Nadir. Marguerite trusted the Persian almost more than Erik himself, little though she knew him. As long as he was aware of their situation, all was not entirely lost.

For as long as she could, she had put off thinking about Henri, but her mind would no longer permit it. Touching her shaky fingers to her lips, she recalled his adulation. Her brain tried to grapple with the idea of all he had offered her. Yet he had done so without knowing her full story. What if she chose to accept him, and abandon Erik for good? But Henri did not know about Solange's existence, and he had nearly recalled his offer when she told him that even now she was pregnant.

Of course, it was rather understandable—what man of honor and social standing would freely and gladly raise another man's child, especially a child of _Erik's_ seed? But then, what honorable, respectable man would cheerfully offer to leave his wife for the company of another married female? Was that only as far as his love extended?

She thought of poor Henri of the past four or five years, longing for her, seeing her pass into Marcel's nasty favor before eventually marrying the Opera Ghost he had not believed existed. Was this how Erik had felt when Marguerite brought Christine to him, when he saw her for the first time in six years? The two men were, in fact, quite similar, Marguerite noted with more than a little bit of pain.

Both of them were in love with women who were not their wives. The women in both cases were little more than dreams or ideas in their minds. Such dreams could not be realities, for neither truly existed. Erik's innocent, young student, full of adoration and wonder for her mysterious teacher, was no longer real—he had, quite inadvertently, made certain of that himself. To Henri, Marguerite would always be the new young woman in Paris—the unknown, someone fresh and different, new blood in the neighborhood. But she belonged to someone else entirely.

Or so she thought.

_Why will he not come for me?_ she thought of Erik. _What is keeping him from me?_

Her optimism from earlier that day had all but dissolved completely. What if Erik never came back? What if he had decided to pursue Christine yet _again_, believing her to be the only thing that would remove his demons forever? Why else, indeed, would he have stayed away so long?

Pressing her palms and forehead against the windowpane, her breathing came heavily, fogging up the glass. What else would make him happy? Untouched anger welled up within her, making her shake all the more. Was it not enough that she pledged her lifelong love and companionship to him? Was it not enough to have borne him a lovely, gifted child he obviously adored, with another on the way? Was he not satisfied with their safe and happy little country life? He was free, freer than he had ever been, freer than he had ever dared to dream before. He had been free to live, to share his knowledge and his music, free to love and be loved.

_Mme Giry, you should have stayed in Rome with your daughter_. _You should have died _there, _and we would not have had to come back to Paris_.

A terrible thought, of course, for which she scolded herself.

Marguerite closed her eyes and tried to remember a time before she had met Erik, before she had even seen Paris.

They had lived in _Saint-Marie_, perfectly content. Her father had his store, modestly successful. Marguerite and her mother kept a garden and grew vegetables and flowers. In their sewing circle at the church, they made clothes for the poor. She smiled, remembering how she had believed herself to be in love with a boy in the same town, Jerome. She could not remember his last name, and barely even what he looked like. When they inherited a fortune and moved to Paris' high society, she forgot all about him…and almost everything else in her personal history.

Paris had taken as much as it gave, it seemed.

She had gained Erik, and lost family, reputation, and past.

Since they had returned, it now appeared to be quite the opposite. Marguerite loved her parents, but no matter what, she still despised this city, and wanted out. Just as before, all the pleasure the city might give her had already expired.

Then again, she had to admit that their life together had never been continually joyous, even out in the country, away from the contempt of others. Marguerite smiled, thinking of Pierre and his family, and Paige Lambert, and Nadir. _They_, at least, were not contemptuous. But when she thought back, she remembered the turmoil over her pregnancy with Solange, and the baby that even now grew within her. She thought of Erik attacked by highway thieves, and Solange's illness. Marguerite's own words to Henri came back to her.

_Perhaps I'm not euphorically happy every moment, but when has that ever been possible in this world?_

Finally stepping back from the window, she glanced over at Solange, who was dead asleep. The girl slept just like her mother—limp, relaxed, as though she lacked a skeleton. Fortunately, she did not take after her father's sleep habits, or lack thereof. Marguerite sighed, looking at her. She did not want her daughter to grow up here, no matter how loving her grandparents. Yet the idea of a young woman and her female child traveling alone over isolated country roads was rather unthinkable, especially after what had happened to Erik.

Heat collected in her face, and then spread to the rest of her body. Was Henri really the answer to her dilemma? Would he keep his word and take her—them—wherever she wanted to go? How would he react to Solange? Would he shun her as the offspring of his rival, or embrace her as the daughter of the woman he loved? Solange would probably never forget her father, and might never stop asking for him. After all Erik had been teaching her, Henri would be a poor substitute.

Then again, he may serve to rein in the poorer qualities Solange was threatening to inherit from her father.

To think of Erik somehow discovering these traitorous, profane thoughts of Marguerite's was enough to make her go cold. She knew he would not harm her, but he had tried to kill Henri before. There was no doubt in Marguerite's mind that he would do it again.

How would the Punjab lasso hold up against a revolver? she wondered._ If _Erik cared enough to try for her.

She could not help remembering Erik's face that morning, the instant after she had slapped him. There had been neither anger nor blame…but there had been fear, an emotion rarely seen in her husband. It had to have meant _something_.

_Her husband_…

No matter what, she was still married to him. She had vows to keep.

But what if he had broken his?

Searching her own mind, Marguerite was becoming deeply, dangerously confused. Was she searching for an excuse to leave Erik…or an excuse to stay?

She tried—and failed—to forget the way Henri had kissed her earlier that evening. Clenching her eyes shut, she sank to her knees, hunching over as though to shield herself from some physical danger. Time after time, she had feared that Erik would resort to infidelity, when in fact it was she who had strayed the most of both of them. Try as she might to place all the blame at Erik's feet, she knew she had to bear most of it.

_Why didn't you stop him, you fool?_ she asked herself. _Stinking, filthy hypocrite!_

And yet…was this her second chance? With a gasp, her eyes snapped open as she remembered that day years ago, when Henri had found her working in the bookshop. He had _searched _for her, he said, a day after standing up for her in front of his duplicitous companions. It was amazing, really, that none of those other men had recognized her. Good lord, what might they have done to her without Henri there?

But he was not faultless! Henri had shown a vast deal of tactlessness when he appeared, unannounced, unwanted, in the underground house with a detective, prepared to woo Marguerite away with him while she was still abed and undressed. He would not listen to her frantic assertions that she was, indeed, a married woman, and had no desire to go with him. Though he had offered her numerous benefits of a life with him, he was an arrogant, self-interested young man at the time.

Was it possible that four years had changed him? It seemed to be at least a little bit true. Marguerite guessed that an unhappy marriage had been part of it. Unfortunately, it had made Henri all the more determined to remedy things for himself. Of course, she had not put up much of a fight, unable to speak in her own—or Erik's—defense most of the time. All too often, however, there had been no arguing with Henri. His methods of persuasion, as well, had been refined with time and affliction. After only seeing her for a short time, he found her out; he saw the ache in her, and appealed to it.

Still…could a man who so willingly left his wife be trusted?

Another part of her countered that argument and pointed out that, though apparently unhappy in his marriage, Henri had not yet left his wife for anyone else. He had waited for Marguerite.

_As Erik waits for Christine_…

_No! He loves me_. _He loves _me. _She's just_…_just_…

_Just his former pupil_. _Just the manifestation of all he ever wanted, or all he ever lost: innocence, beauty, sweet loveliness and youth_…_Just his dream that will not die, no matter how many times he makes love to you, no matter how many children you may conceive and bear for him_.

Still crouched and shaking, Marguerite pressed her palms against her forehead, as though to keep her thoughts from spilling out. If she let herself go now, she would scream and sob and wake up Solange, needlessly upsetting her. Gritting her teeth, she straightened to her feet and grabbed an oil lamp that was still lit. She had to move around the house; she would take a walk around the block, if need be. Her thoughts were too consuming, too enormous, to confine her to this single room.

* * *

Raoul planted his face in his hands and groaned loudly when the maid came to him with news of their visitor. As one of Raoul's friends, Henri Laroche had visited them many times. However, since he was now arriving only a day after the Vicomte had received a note from the woman Henri claimed to love so desperately, this visit could be no coincidence. 

Blinking in surprise at her master's demonstration, the maid hesitated awkwardly in the doorway. The Vicomte had never reacted this way to news of a visitor, and she was hesitant to react in any way. Finally he lifted his head. She had never seen so much frustration in his eyes, even that time when Armande had broken a special figurine, or when the poorest nobility in their family had asked him for money yet again.

"Show him in," he said wearily.

She curtsied quickly and left the room. Raoul stood up from his chair and poured himself a strong drink; he would need it for whatever digression Henri might present, whatever scheme he may be concocting. Indeed, the younger man had given Raoul yet another reason to hate Erik. Ever since Henri had found out the love of his life was married to the Phantom, he never could resist plying Raoul for advice in dealing with the man-ghost. After all, Raoul had the most "experience" of anyone else, save Christine.

Raoul had only taken one gulp from the glass before Henri came in, his face flushed, his eyes bright, and his hair disheveled. In the heat of early afternoon, he looked to have ridden out from the city on horseback, at full speed. The Vicomte sincerely hoped one of the estate's groomsmen was caring for the poor animal during his master's visit.

"Good afternoon, Raoul," Henri said, breathless with excitement.

"Henri. Good afternoon." The older of the two swept his hand toward his generous array of decanters and bottles. "May I offer you refreshment?" he asked dryly.

"No, thank you," Henri said. His voice betrayed the enthusiasm he was trying to suppress, and it took very little time before he was speaking his thoughts aloud. "Raoul…she's back. She's back in Paris. I saw her last night, at the Gautiers. She was staying with her family. I spoke to her, and…" He cut himself off, barely suppressing a smile.

"Who, your wife?" Raoul asked innocently, paying more attention to the liquid in his glass than to his friend.

"_No_, Raoul, I'm talking about Marguerite! She has come back to Paris. Celine has gone to Venice, and I received word a mere two days ago that she arrived safely at her sister's house. The timing could not be more perfect."

Raoul took his time in savoring the beverage in his glass before speaking. "And do you come to show me more cuts and bruises?"

Henri's brow furrowed in confusion. "Why on earth should I do that?"

Raoul shrugged. "I thought perhaps your lady's husband would try to break your neck."

Henri lost the battle, and a smile broke out on his face. His mood was grotesquely buoyant for the occasion. "He was not there! She said he was attending 'personal matters,' but he never appeared, even later. And she did not seem to expect him." When Raoul showed no surprise, but instead appeared a little ill, Henri questioned it.

"I think these spirits are a lower quality than I've become accustomed to," the Vicomte said, staring at his glass. "Or perhaps the day is just too warm."

Henri frowned. "Raoul, have you listened to a word I've spoken since I came into this room? Do you not want to know what happened?"

"I suppose you wasted little time in reiterating your offer to her on bended knee." When he saw the way Henri blushed, he actually laughed out loud. "I see I know you rather well, my friend. And what was her response? Favorable, I suppose, judging from your disposition today."

"Well…no."

Raoul sighed and shook his head. "_Bon dieu_, man, are we going to suffer through this all over again? Why can't you leave her alone? Put her from your mind. Maybe if you, too, went to Italy and spent more time with Celine…" He let his voice trail off. To himself, he wondered if he ought to show Henri the note written in Marguerite's own hand. Perhaps later…

Henri ran a hand through his windswept hair, ignoring Raoul's comment about his wife. "She defends her husband, but she is miserable with him, I have seen it with my own eyes. I would leave her to him if my conscience would allow it. As it is, I must ask her again if she will come with me."

He looked down toward the massive, elaborate rug on the parlor's wooden floor. "It was wrong of me to marry Celine, that much I learned in a short time. But now, I have another opportunity to be with someone I really do love, and I cannot let it pass. I will not force her to leave that monster, but I will continue to remind her what she stands to gain."

"Are you sure you still want her?" Raoul asked. "It has been, after all, several years."

"Can a woman's very essence change so dramatically in that time?"

Raoul merely shrugged again.

"No," Henri said, "I cannot believe so. She is still the lovely, sweet, sound woman I met years ago, and I would do just about anything for her."

"Did you tell her so?"

"Yes."

"Do you need further instruction?"

"Well…no."

"Then what have you come to see me for?"

Henri frowned as though seriously thinking the matter over. "Now that you've asked, I can't rightly recall. But you were so stanch and vital in my first pursuit of her, I suppose I came for your honest opinion of these recent developments, which, I might add, I value highly."

"I'm most obliged, I'm sure, _monsieur_."

Henri sighed, remembering something else. "But speaking of 'recent developments,' she also informed me that…she is with child."

When Raoul set the still partly-full glass on the side table, he nearly broke it with the force of his hand. At Henri's startling new detail, he found himself in desperate need of a chair.

_Erik's spawn, set loose on the world_…

"God save us all," he murmured.

"With Marguerite as the mother, the child could not be wholly bad," Henri said, correctly interpreting Raoul's reaction.

"Nor could it be too innocent, even a child," Raoul murmured. "_Mon dieu_, you cannot be serious. Do you still intend to win her over, after she told you that?"

"Well," Henri said, drawing out that single word. "I have not decided. Perhaps I ought to love the child because it is hers. Perhaps I should give up the matter entirely. But _that _idea brings me nothing but absolute dread."

"I see," Raoul said. "Well, it appears that you, and only you, are able to decide for yourself. I hardly think I could be of any use to you in this affair."

"That's a rather poor choice of words, don't you think?" Henri asked.

Raoul's smile lifted only one side of his mouth. "Or an excellent one." He cleared his throat. "Forgive me, but I had the idea—rather foolish of me, I suppose—that if the young lady refused you…It was the end of the matter."

Soft footsteps outside the open doorway made both men look up. Christine peeked around the corner. When she saw who was visiting her husband, she came fully into the room, smiling unenthusiastically.

"Good afternoon, Henri," she said. Though she was not so slim and delicate as before she began having children, her unearthly beauty had remained, now framed by a pale green dress of light, flowing material that gave an admirer the impression of Venus emerging from the sea. However, the unnerving detail in her appearance was the hardness of her eyes when she looked at Henri. When she moved to stand beside Raoul and gently clasped his hand, Henri felt a twinge of jealousy.

Raoul clearly adored his wife, even with the horrors of their past, and the length of their acquaintance, which might have seemed intolerable to less romantic witnesses. They had come far together; they were meant for each other. Gifted and charming, Christine had risen to the task of being the Vicomtess de Chagny, and neither the children nor the household suffered mismanagement on her part.

With a heavy heart, Henri thought of his own home, or lack thereof, and his own Celine. Dear Celine—clever and handsome, avaricious and vain—was still a stranger to him. The more he saw of her, the more she troubled him. Sensual desire had driven him to her, and financial lust had made her stay. The initial spark had long since died away. Several times he had lain awake at night beside her, after sharing a moment of physical intimacy. He would watch her sleep and wonder how many men she had taken to her bed when his back was turned.

The very idea moved him not at all.

What must it be like, he wondered, to live day after day with a woman you had married for love? The very notion that Erik might know the answer—and not Henri—put knots in Henri's stomach.

Henri lapsed into silence after greeting Christine, during which time the woman whispered something in her husband's ear.

"Not yet," Raoul answered. "But he does have similar news. Henri?" He turned to his friend. "Would you care to repeat for Christine the information you related to me a few minutes ago?"

The younger man agreed and cleared his throat, feeling as though he was being punished for something. As he spoke, he quickly learned that the chill in Christine's eyes had not been imagined. When he was finished, the Vicomtess' face was flushed, and she looked positively livid.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, her tone low and shaking, as though close to tears. "Why must you interfere with this?"

Henri stared at her wordlessly before glancing at Raoul, who offered nothing. Swallowing, Henri merely said, "I love her."

"Nonsense!" Christine snapped. "You're only fooling yourself by saying that. You don't really care at all for her. You just want Marguerite because your own marriage is a farce, and she's the only other woman who has ever so much as looked twice at you! But she chose a misshapen lunatic over you, and your pathetic conceit cannot _bear_ the idea!"

Her soft, dainty hands were balled into fists as she stared at Henri, breathless with fury. When Raoul tried to touch her shoulder for comfort, she flinched away from him, sparking another outpouring of emotion from her mouth.

"When will you leave them alone? When will _any of you_ leave him _alone?_" Sobbing, she fled the room, her feet stamping up the staircase. Several seconds later, the sound of a slamming door echoed down to the parlor.

"Raoul…" Henri said, his voice the barest whisper. "Please don't think—"

"Perhaps you ought to go home now, Henri," Raoul said. "You have much to think about on your way back." That said, he strode from the parlor and up the stairs, his chin lifted, his head high.

* * *


	41. Confrontation

**A/N: All right, this is not the original way I was going to plot this, but it dawned on me rather suddenly and it seemed to work itself out. By the way, sorry about the delay in getting this next chapter posted. Not only did I have to deal with real life, alas, but I also had to think very long and deeply about what I wanted to do in this chapter. I'm rather pleased with it, honestly. Unfortunately, I actually had this chapter written MUCH earlier, but because of a lack of Internet access, except at work, I haven't been able to post it until today, when I finally got the Internet back at my "new"-since-the-Flood apartment. So…enjoy. I hope.**

* * *

"It's not fair, Paige! _He _is the one who has wronged me. Why should _I _find him and beg him to return?" 

Paige Lambert quietly stirred her tea, staring into the cup. She was not notified of Marguerite's visit beforehand, but it had in no way surprised her when she showed up this morning. It was only a matter of time before the young woman came back to collect her things—including her husband, who was still absent. Paige was certain it was the pregnancy that made Marguerite's conversation about Erik turn from soul-scorching fury, to the verge of fainting terror, and then a heartbreaking, anguished sorrow, only to loop around again and start afresh. Uncertainty about her husband's condition and whereabouts was not something an expectant mother should ever have on her mind, Paige thought.

After a moment's pause, she said, "All I'm saying is that Nadir went to speak with him several times yesterday. He returned to say Erik is in a very bad way." She stopped stirring and met Marguerite's irritated gaze. "Dearest, I came to live with you and your husband for a little while after Solange was born. It was long enough to discover that you can both be quite stubborn at times." As Marguerite looked away, Paige leaned forward slightly, dropping the volume of her words. "This is _not _the time."

The younger woman lowered her chin, refusing to look at her. "He ought to apologize."

"That cannot be argued," Paige conceded. "I'm not saying he shouldn't. What he did to you was abominable, and I hate to think he is capable of much worse, though I have little doubt of it." She paused to gauge Marguerite's reaction, but she kept her face stony. "Nadir never told me what Erik said, but he is certain that your husband desperately regrets his actions."

Marguerite's scoffing sound was very unattractive. "He has a fine way of showing it."

"Goodness knows, I, too, would be above and beyond mere anger if I were in your shoes," Paige said. "My husband gone for a solid day with no explanation, not a word, after such…abuse? It is truly unthinkable. But you certainly would not be the weaker person if you defeated your pride and your stubbornness and at least sought him out."

Marguerite shot her a look that clearly asked if she was joking.

"I'm not saying you should go on your hands and knees to grovel before him," Paige went on. "If he has any regard for you at all, he would be disgusted by such behavior." She smiled. "And it is so contrary to your disposition. You would be much better off standing straight and tall before him and _demanding _an explanation for recent events and his present conduct."

"And then what?"

Paige sighed. "I'm afraid that is as far as I can help you. I haven't a single idea what he might do or say at that point, and I certainly could not tell you what to say to _that_ once he's finished." She glanced out the window. The morning had been very fine, but she could see a threatening shade of gray in the distance. When it was clear that Marguerite had nothing else to say, she added, "A pity you didn't bring your mother and Solange in with you."

"I tried," Marguerite said, "but Mama wanted to buy her some new dresses. I told her Solange would outgrow them in a week, but she flatly refused to listen." She took a sip of tea. "And anyway, neither of them could have been able to hear this conversation. I did tell my mother what Erik did, but she doesn't know…who he is."

"True." Again, Paige found herself at a loss to continue, and she was getting tired of Marguerite's long bouts of silence. "I'm sure Nadir would be only too happy to escort you to your husband…unless you already know where he is."

"I do," Marguerite whispered. "The only place that makes any sense for him to be."

"And so…" Paige took a long sip of her tea. "What is stopping you? Do you want to take the rest of your things from the spare room and move them to your parents' house first, before going to find him?"

Marguerite shook her head, and then wrinkled her brow thoughtfully. "Are Erik's things here still?"

Paige bit her lip and set the teacup aside. "Interesting enough that you should ask," she said, her voice actually wavering with nervousness. "Last night Nadir took your dear husband's personal effects when he went to see him the second time. He didn't return them, so I assume…" She shrugged.

"You assume _what_, exactly?" Marguerite asked, her voice rising a little. She was progressing once again out of her anger and into trembling fear.

"I cannot guess anything, Marguerite." She looked slightly ill from this news she had just imparted. "As I said, Nadir has told me little…if at all. I don't mind, really. It is none of my business, except that you are a friend for whose well-being I am much concerned."

"But surely you must think _something_."

"What _I _think…no." Paige folded her hands in her lap, looking resolved and as matronly as Marguerite had ever seen her. Often it was difficult to remember that Paige Lambert was about the same age as her mother, Isabelle. Now, however, the age disparity was quite obvious as Paige said, "You must discover for yourself what you should think of it all. Go find him and speak to him. Only then will you know what is really happening between you two, and to him."

"I can't," Marguerite whispered. Paige had to ask her to repeat it. She did, loudly, startling the older woman.

"What is it, then? I know you must _want _to."

"I can't face him," she said, dropping her voice again. She stood abruptly, hugging her arms around herself. "I swear that sometimes he's been able to read my mind, and I…I can't risk that right now." Her face contorted as though a contraction had just seized her, and she lost her breath for a moment. It was not physical, but emotional pain so strong she was almost afraid for her unknown child.

"Marguerite?" Paige asked cautiously.

"I thought I was so good," she murmured. "I know he's betrayed me in his thoughts several times, though he may not have wanted to. Even so, he's never been free of her. Christine was always there, like a ghost herself. I prided myself on my faithfulness, that there had been no one but Erik, and never would be." She clenched her eyes shut again. "I was wrong. There _was _someone else. There always has been."

Paige's head came back a little, as though riding in a carriage that had stopped very suddenly. "Good heavens, girl, what are you _saying?_"

"Last night, before dinner." Marguerite looked as though she had almost forgotten Paige was even in the room. "Henri said he loved me, and always had. When he kissed me, I couldn't do anything but kiss him back." Slowly she ran a single tip of her finger along her bottom lip, as though she still felt the reprehensible sensation of Henri's. "There was…well, I…" She sighed. "By my _actions_, I've behaved more deceitfully against Erik than he ever did against me."

"Oh, my dear," Paige said, standing up and going to her side. "I'm sure it was a weak, lonely moment for you. As long as it stopped there, so much the better. Kisses can be forgotten soon enough."

"Not this," Marguerite said. "When I awoke this morning, and I realized Erik still had not come for me, I was so close to running to Henri's house and banging on his front door until he answered. Then I could just beg him to take me away, to take me out of here, because I can't bear it any longer!"

She took another deep, shaky breath, and a sudden, eerie serenity came over her. With a lowered, stronger voice she said, "Then I remembered _why _I felt so lonely and confused. And it made me want to do it just to spite Erik. When I thought that, I realized how depraved I really am, and that I'm no better than any other soul on earth."

Feeling uncomfortable, Paige stepped away, on the pretense of retrieving her teacup. She only pretended to take a sip; even the taste of tea did not appeal to her right now. It was such a strange moment, and she was not sure what to say.

"What have you decided to do," she finally asked, "now that you have committed such a heinous breach of trust?" Though her words were weighty, it was the lightness in her countenance that aptly conveyed her irony. Marguerite looked at her for less than a second before she abruptly turned her head away, apparently in shame.

"I _haven't _decided."

"Well, you know my suggestion still stands. As I said before, Nadir reports that your beloved does not appear well at all. It could do him good to see you."

"Why does he not come to me himself, then?"

It was Paige's turn to sigh. She was beginning to be annoyed by the younger woman's uncertainty, and the circular, futile motion of their conversation. She reminded herself of the gravity of the situation, and to be patient and loving still, despite herself.

She forced a smile and said, "That is certainly something to ask him when you do see him."

* * *

"I'm pleased that Paige was able to convince you to come here," Nadir said later, escorting her into the front entrance of the _Opera Populaire_. Marguerite did not immediately answer him, but stopped suddenly and stared up at the tall, tall domed ceiling of the vestibule. "_Madame_, is there something wrong?" 

Marguerite let out a breath, as though in wonder. "It's been so long since I entered this way…as though I were just like anyone else."

Nadir smiled sadly. "I thought there would be no need for secrecy as far as simply entering the building." He cleared his throat. "But there likely _is _a need for haste, _madame_…if you please."

"Stop calling me _madame_," she said as they made their way through the maze of dark wood and carpet. Either the _Populaire_ had indeed been successful, or Gautier was over his head in debt. A great deal of money went into refurbishing the place, no doubt about that. Everything looked new.

"You were there when my husband and I arrived at our new home," Marguerite went on. "You'd taken care of the place for him. You brought Paige into our lives when Solange was born. You were kind to me, even when Erik was not. You were companion to both of us, when we each needed it, to say nothing of your relationship with Erik years before I came along." She stopped following and gripped Nadir's sleeve, bringing him to a halt as well. "Nadir—you _must not_ call me '_madame_.'"

Stunned at her choked voice and the tears in her eyes, Nadir said, "My apologies…Marguerite. I will not do so again."

They continued on their way, silently, for a short while. Just before reaching the chapel, for they were indeed taking that route, Marguerite spoke up again.

"Why is this happening? What is he doing hiding here? This is insanity—I am not the Vicomte. Why are you leading me to my own husband? Why am I not at home, as he comes to _me?_"

"Marguerite," Nadir answered cautiously, "if I answered those questions, I would not only be overstepping my bounds, but eliminating any purpose of your visiting him at all."

"Very well," she sighed. "Now I truly must see him. I have exhausted all other resources."

Much to Nadir's relief, they entered the chapel, the floor colored with light through the stained-glass windows. He was glad for the chance to duck down and hide his face as he pulled up the trap-door that concealed the stairs. Marguerite's questioning troubled him. He knew many of the answers, but it truly was _not _his place to tell her; that was for Erik to do. How would she react when he told her face-to-face of his plans for desertion!

That they needed a way to cross the water had not occurred to Marguerite until they had jumped through the last trap-door and begun to walk along the lake's very shore. She was just about to ask the Persian how he planned to manage it when they came around a curve and she saw a crude raft, made of who-knows-what. Nadir was resourceful, indeed.

"I'm sorry I could not provide you with more accommodating transportation," he said, stepping skillfully upon the wavering planks. "I only hope you won't object to getting yourself just a little wet."

Marguerite looked down at her dress, a frock she had brought to Paris from home. Already thin and tattered from months of wear, it had gotten grimy from the journey down five cellars, and there was a new tear in one of her petticoats.

"At this juncture, any thought of appearance is well out of my head," she remarked, giving her skirts a stubborn shake. "I take it Erik was not so generous as to lend you his boat?"

"I never asked," Nadir said. "This way I can surprise him more unpleasantly."

Marguerite found herself smiling at his comment. "It is truly amazing that you've been able to _survive_ his friendship after all these years. I'd think he would have killed you out of frustration long ago."

That remark killed any pretense of liveliness in the air, and Nadir's smile along with it. "There have been more close calls than you can imagine, _mada_—Marguerite," he said. He held out his hand, dark and calloused. "Come now…we must be on our way."

Wishing she had brought a cloak, Marguerite huddled at Nadir's feet. She shivered as the water crept up the fabric of her dress and the chilly air bit at her skin. She had forgotten how cold it could get upon this lake; it was as though eternal winter existed below the theater. Warily she watched the little eddies Nadir was creating as he stirred the water and steered the raft. The flimsy structure could barely hold both of them, bobbing and tipping this way and that. She was convinced it would not complete the journey, which was agonizingly long.

Nadir stole a few glances down at the woman he had temporarily taken under his wing. Heat burned in his chest every time he looked at her, the heat of anger toward Erik, and at what Nadir had been reduced to doing for this couple. All his life, the only thing the fool had ever wanted, so he claimed, was to be loved for himself. How could he have been so swift to throw aside what he had gained?

Seeing Marguerite's pale, pinched face, he could not help but once again compare her to the now-Vicomtess de Chagny. _There _had been a child, terrified of a force she could not fully understand, chased and captured by an obsessive love that threatened to choke a rose not yet in bloom. But now, at his feet cringed a flower whose petals had been robbed through dismal mishandling. Perhaps it was best that Erik had chosen to leave her, though she was still unaware of that decision. Was it possible that she _would _be better off without him?

Another glance at her face—now damp with tears or lake water, he was not sure—told him she would rather put up with him than be alone. If only Erik could see that!

At last, there was only one more corner to steer around, and then they would be…

_Oh, damn_.

Erik had lowered the portcullis, blocking entrance to his lair by water. _Why didn't I take her the other way around?_ Nadir asked himself. "I'm sorry, Marguerite," he said mournfully. "I should have brought you another way."

She was shivering with frightening intensity now. "Too late now," she said, barely intelligible through her chattering teeth.

"Just a moment." Nadir cautiously slid off of the raft and stepped into the dark water with a shudder. It was only waist deep here, but cold enough to be painful, if not downright perilous. He grasped the vessel and pulled it along with him, right up to the gate, where the water came only up to his knees. Marguerite continued to crouch, rubbing her arms for warmth, her head bowed, her hair curtaining her face from view.

"_Erik!_" Nadir shouted through a space in the iron, banging his fists against it. The rattling echoed across the stone and water, nearly deafening. Erik could only miss it if he was completely absent—or completely inebriated. Nadir doubted the first, but wondered at the latter's possibility.

"He's here," he whispered to Marguerite. "He must be. If he is not, I swear I will find him still. I can't have let you come here in vain."

"I just—just want off this—this bloody raft," she murmured brokenly, "before I—I'm seasick." She did, indeed, look faintly chartreuse.

Nadir tried to shake the portcullis, but it barely moved. "_Damn it all, Erik! Show yourself!_" he thundered.

And then, as suddenly as if he had merely appeared out of the air, Erik was standing beside the pipe organ, sans mask. His expression made his deformity all the more ghastly. It was as though he was trying to kill Nadir with his eyes alone—and it was nearly working.

"Damn you to Lucifer's mouth, daroga," he said. "I've had enough of you. Get out, before I do something I won't regret for a very long time."

Though he refused to move, Nadir's knuckles were white with the grip he had on the iron. "Raise the gate, Erik. I'm not alone this time."

"_Merde_," the Phantom growled, loud enough for Nadir and Marguerite both to hear. "What the _hell _do you think you're doing?"

"Bringing someone who needs to see you."

At the same time Nadir said this, Marguerite raised her head and glared at her husband. When she sat up on her heels, the candlelight caught her eyes and Erik finally saw her. He took one faltering step backward and reached out to grasp the instrument for support. Any blood left in his face drained out. His lips formed her name, but there was no sound to be heard. For one instant, before his stubbornness concealed it again, Erik's entire soul was laid bare for both his wife and the Persian to see. He hardened his expression, however, and straightened his shoulders.

"Daroga, I thought I told you exactly what to say to her."

"You did. _I _thought you should be the one to tell her instead."

Marguerite looked back and forth between the two men. "What is this? Erik, what am I to be told?" Somehow, she didn't think an apology was part of Erik's agenda.

With a grimace, Erik turned his back on both of them, balling his hands into fists.

Nadir gritted his teeth and reached out for the raft with one hand, pulling Marguerite closer to his side. "Erik, you idiot, _look _at her! She's wet and freezing. Let us in right now, or I swear to Allah, I'll—"

He stopped mid-threat when Erik, still refusing to look at them, stepped over to the lever that controlled the portcullis and pulled. With the groan of rusty metal, the entryway opened up to them. Nadir began to drag the raft toward shore, with Marguerite still on it, but she rolled off and, stumbling, strode through the water herself.

"Have you been here all this time?" she asked. "Why?"

"She needs to hear what you've been saying, Erik," Nadir added.

"Get out of here," Erik said, stepping away from the lever and moving to stand near the pipe organ again, once again facing away from them. "Go."

Climbing the stone steps, Marguerite angrily brushed the tears from her face. "I want to know what has been going on!" Forgetting how treacherous the footing could be, she hurried her pace and nearly slid across the floor. Looking up just in time to see her coming toward him, he stepped back, sliding the organ bench between them. Skidding to a stop, she almost doubled over the seat, gasping.

"Don't come near me," he said, his jaw clenched painfully. "Don't touch me—don't look at me—don't speak to me. Just—get—out."

Mortified and hurt, she crumpled to her knees, her arms still resting on the bench. "You won't even explain…"

"Just go," Erik repeated, turning away from her again, though, Nadir noticed, more reluctantly this time. "What's to explain? You _know _what happened. Go back to your parents, take care of Solange…or better yet, go back to the countryside. Whatever you do, stay away from here, and stay away from _me_."

"Erik…" Nadir whispered, coaxing him once again to explain, and less harshly.

"What in heaven's name have I done?" Marguerite asked incredulously.

At this, Erik turned back to her, though his eyes avoided her directly. "Do you not realize that it's what _I've _done? You…you cannot live with this anymore."

"I can't?"

"Yesterday morning…the way I…" He gulped and shut his eyes, shaking his head. Then, he seemed to remember his entire face was visible, and he brought a hand up to cover the deficient half. "_Mon dieu_, I'm sorry."

"That's what I wanted to hear," she said, breathlessly getting to her feet. Nadir helped her, the sight of which seemed to pain Erik. "Erik, I waited all day yesterday for you to tell me that. I'm willing to forgive you. You can't ever let anything like that happen again, but…I do forgive you. If we leave Paris, we'll be away from…all this…and it can be like before, when—"

"No, no," he moaned. "You don't understand. You've been with me too long to remember your freedom. Go, yes, _go_, away from 'all this,' but leave me here. You'll be much happier, I promise you."

"_What?_" She turned to Nadir. "Is _this _what you were supposed to tell me?" At his reluctant nod, she whirled back on Erik. "Have you gone completely out of your head? You…you were going to leave me here, in this godforsaken city, without so much as an _adieu?_ First you try to use me, and then…then you think to just toss me aside?"

"Nadir was supposed to give the _adieu_ in my stead," he said lamely.

"Damn it, Erik!" Marguerite's face was flushed, her eyes red and puffy. "Of all things, I never thought you were a coward!"

"So much for forgiveness," he muttered.

"That's for bloody certain!" she snapped. "You promised me…you made vows…we're _married_, Erik. We've been through enough hardships before. You said you love me. What _happened?_" She stomped her foot childishly. "If you can't bear the sight of me anymore, at least come back for your daughter's sake! She's been asking for you. What am I to tell her? What about your other child, yet to be born? What about when he starts asking where his father is?"

Nadir stood still and stared. He was nearly terrified of the fury spouting from this young woman. She was not even finished.

"I don't hate the sight of you," Erik said, the words pathetic and ineffective at this point.

"All your life," Marguerite went on, panting for breath, "you've suffered from people hating you, and using you, and forsaking you. Well, you've become one of them, haven't you? I can completely sympathize now, having tasted what it's been like for you all these years. Maybe you're right. Maybe I am _better off! _No wonder you hate the world for doing this to you. I wish I could hate _you _for doing it to _me!_"

She practically spat out the last few words just before turning abruptly and running in the other direction, lifting her skirts, heavy with water. She reached the false mirror frame and yanked back the curtain that concealed the tunnel to Rue Scribe. After a while, her footsteps ceased to echo against the stones.

Nadir rushed to Erik's side as the man, broken and shaking with quiet sobs, sank to his knees, covering his face with both hands.

"Aren't you going after her?" the Persian asked, panicking. Like the House of Usher, he was watching a marriage crumble and fall before his eyes, and he was powerless to prevent it. "Erik, I don't think she's coming back this time. You have to go get her!"

"Why should I?" the Phantom moaned, his voice muffled. "Everything she said was true."

* * *

**A/N: All right…how often do you read the book (Leroux's or Kay's) and feel all warm and fuzzy inside? I know it's very depressing right now, but please stay with me! There's still a lot left in this story.**

**And guess what! I think I figured out an end, at last. It won't be a trilogy (unless there is a high demand for one, which I doubt very much), and it may come before the end of 2006, but I'm not sure about that yet. Depends on how much I can flesh it out and how frequently I update. But anyway, I've been going on far too long. _Please _review!**


	42. The Heart's Starvation

**A/N: WOW. Let me just say, I feel very encouraged. Thank you, everyone.**

**This chapter is proof that I can write a _lot _when I'm exhausted. Whether it's any good...well, I proofread it, that's all I can promise.  
**

* * *

It was not difficult for Nadir to find her again. She was close to the Rue Scribe entrance, near piles of crates and garbage, leaning against the wall. He grimaced, realizing that she had been retching, but then his expression changed to that of alarm. Rushing toward her, his hurried steps made enough noise that she raised her head. He stopped in his tracks when he saw her face.

In the cellars' darkness, he had only caught glimmers of her pallor, but now they were out-of-doors in the middle of the day. Her skin was ashen, her eyes dull—as though some internal fire had burned out, and all Nadir could see was a cold, empty hearth. The carefully pinned hair had come loose long ago, and now all but a few pieces hung down alongside her face. She looked like a fugitive from Hell itself, just barely escaping the heads of Cerberus.

"You must go home and into bed at once, Marguerite!" the Persian gasped. The words seemed too loud to him, but they came out as a whisper. "This is too much for you."

Marguerite looked up at him. "What happened in there?"

Swallowing, Nadir said, "I'm trying to make sense of that myself." His tone was kind and patient, as if speaking to a madwoman on her way to the asylum. Indeed, she looked as though she belonged there; her empty stare was an eerie sight.

On his way to find her after her flight, he had considered begging her to return to Erik's lair with him. However, a single glance at her now told him there were more pressing matters at hand. Marguerite was upset enough to lose the baby, and at risk of causing great harm to herself, as well. Perhaps it ought not to be his concern, but Nadir could not help thinking he had a stake in this whole messy situation. He had invested quite a bit of time and labor—and even his money—in Erik's welfare, and he was not about to let it go to waste, especially not when the solutions seemed so clear to him.

Thinking that it should be Erik doing this instead of himself, he tucked one hand beneath Marguerite's elbow, leading her down Rue Scribe and toward a more frequented street.

"You need to rest," he repeated. "It's only midday, but I must say you've experienced enough to fill a fortnight."

"Yes," Marguerite said, "I want to go home." She coughed, and then sniffled. "What am I going to tell Solange? What is she going to think?" Scowling through her tears, she said, "Paige insisted I come here today. A great deal of good _that_ has done."

"Do not be angry with her," Nadir warned. "She loves you as a sister, and a daughter, and she only wanted to help."

Her skin regained no color, but her eyes began to take on an angry sheen. "Yes, I know. Don't worry, every scrap of my anger is focused toward Erik, and Erik alone." She stopped walking, and he paused as well. Looking pleadingly into his face, she said, "I can't be Christine for him! Was I supposed to be? Has he been pretending that I am, all this while? I cannot be anyone but _me_."

"Listen to me," Nadir said, gripping her shoulders. "Erik loves _you_. He must! Perhaps he never entirely conceded his fantasy involving the Vicomtess, but I wager that is because it became such a natural part of him, part of his heart and his way of thinking, that giving it up would undo so much of his past. Even when he had you right before his eyes, he was afraid to let her go, possibly because of a fear that you, too, would be gone someday. And then what would he have?"

"But _he _is the one who is gone," she murmured.

Nadir sighed. "Yes, but…perhaps he hides because he simply cannot face that past anymore. He encountered it yesterday, and…you know what happened. He has something better than the dream he held onto so stubbornly. But he's possessed that dream for so long, that when he realized he must let it go or lose the life he's made for himself in the meantime, he didn't know what to do."

"I don't understand," Marguerite said, allowing herself to be again led down the street. "Then he _has _chosen her over me…I've always been a substitute…"

"Forgive me, Marguerite. I meant no such thing. I have little eloquence, and cannot express what I think is going on in your husband's head. Suffice to say, I do _not _believe he really wants to give you up."

"He _is _a fine actor then," she said sullenly. "I was quite convinced." _To think I had my own apologies to offer! _"Then…I must wait?"

After some hesitation, Nadir said, "Perhaps that is all you can do."

"What else is there? Cover myself in ashes and dress in rags, starve Solange and myself and hobble back to the theater and say, 'Look what I have been reduced to without you'? Perhaps if he saw me selling myself on the streets, _that _would change his mind."

At Nadir's stricken look, she shook her head. "I have no intentions of sinking so low. But nor do I have a desire to feed an ego that is fussier than a newborn baby." Baffled, she knitted her brow, trying to think. "How can he believe I would _not _want him to return?"

Nadir remained silent, wondering if it was a question not meant for him to answer. He was correct. She thanked him for helping her into the cab, and they rode to the Gautiers' in complete silence. After he helped her out, she waved away the arm he offered for further support. Instead, she chose to go up the steps to the front door alone. He stayed behind, but watched, lest she slip or stumble. When she reached the door and rang the bell, she turned back to him and lifted her hand in a gesture of acknowledgement and thanks. Her tears were dry, but she still looked pale, haggard, defeated. Nadir wished there was more he could do for her, but he had a feeling that she would refuse anything else. When a maid opened the door and Marguerite stepped inside, Nadir climbed back into the hansom to continue on his own way.

"Marguerite, _there_ you are!" Isabelle's voice entered the hall before her body did. "We were begin—" She came around the corner, Solange in tow, and stopped, horrified. "_Mon dieu_, what happened to you?"

"I'm not feeling well today," Marguerite answered quickly, wishing her mother had not asked in front of Solange. The child was already staring at her, too, with even greater fear.

"Mama," she asked, "are you sick?" She hurried away from her grandmother to cling to her mother's leg, and the skirts surrounding it. "I don't want you to be sick! Where did Papa go? He can make you feel better."

Marguerite patted Solange's back, trying to keep calm. She looked at her mother as she said, "Papa had to leave for a while. He went back home to make sure everything is all right. And he's been visiting his sick friend." She swallowed and tried to think of more false details. As she did so, she mouthed a silent plea for her mother to leave them alone. Nodding solemnly, Isabelle did just that.

"He said he's sorry he didn't say goodbye to you before he left, but he wanted you to have a good time with _Grand-mère_ today. He'll come back as soon as he can." She knelt down in front of Solange and did her best to smile.

"Oh," Solange said, obviously disappointed. "Will he bring Beatrice back with him? I miss her."

"We'll see," Marguerite said, giving her a kiss. "You know I'll want to tell him what a good girl you've been for Mama while he was away." She touched her forehead to Solange's. "Will I be able to do that? Will you be good?"

"Yes, Mama," Solange said.

"All right, then." She patted her on the back again. "Now, go play the piano for _Grand-mère_. Mama has to rest for a bit."

"Is it the baby?"

Shocked, Marguerite blushed brightly. "Yes, _ange_," she managed to say after several seconds of trying. "But…I'll be all right. Now…Solange…where did you hear about that?" So much for Marguerite finding a proper time to tell her about the new sibling, or the best method to do so!

"You and Papa were talking about it. Back home. I don't remember when."

"And you never said anything?"

"You looked sad." Solange was nervous, as though she had been caught in an act of disobedience. "I didn't want to talk about it and make you sad. Don't you want a baby, Mama? Like Mme Garceau?"

Marguerite lifted Solange up into her arms, grunting a little. She held her securely, suddenly fearful of losing her to something—someone—some forces unknown, and she felt choked. "If they were all as good as you are, I would want a _hundred _babies. Papa was just…just worried about me. It can be a little frightening to have a baby…sometimes it hurts."

"Did it hurt when _I _was born?"

"A little," Marguerite lied. "But you are worth every bit of it."

"If you're going to have a baby, why aren't you as big as Mme Garceau was? _She _was going to have a baby, you said. She had her baby when I was sick."

"That's right. Well, she had it a little before then. But I _will _get that big, eventually."

"Where does the baby come out?"

Sighing, Marguerite put Solange back down on her feet. "Oh, _petit_, you are asking more questions today than I can answer. Someday you'll know all about it. But right now, I need you to be a good girl and go play again, and let Mama rest for a while."

"I don't _want _to play the piano," Solange said with a pretty little pout. It put a little more fear into Marguerite's heart; she hoped this would not become a habit, a tool of manipulation. Lord knew Solange did not need to inherit _that _talent from her father! "I'm bored. Papa needs to teach me new songs. He said he would."

Marguerite's time was running out. She could feel a tightening in her chest and throat that was spreading to other parts of her body. She could not keep up this cheerful farce much longer, even for Solange's sake. In fact, she had surprised herself in how long she had managed already. She never had been a good actress; Erik told her so himself. She was too inexperienced, or too honest. Apparently, childhood innocence made liars of everyone else.

_Good lord,_ she thought, looking at her daughter, the girl's last words still echoing in her ears. _How could he even conceive of throwing this all away?_ Solange obviously needed her father still, a fact that Marguerite was never about to deny. What if, five years from now, she was still waiting for her father to come back and teach her more songs? The thought broke Marguerite's heart for the thousandth time that day, and almost took her veneer with it.

"Well," Marguerite finally ventured to say, "perhaps _Grand-mère_ still has the music I used when I was learning to play. You could look at that and…try to teach yourself…maybe as a surprise for Papa…when you see him again? I'm sure…I'm sure he'd like that."

As she stumbled through this suggestion, trying to hide her grief, she begged a prayer that Solange would actually heed her words. It was answered. With a merry note of agreement, the child skipped out of the room to find her grandmother and the piano music.

Trembling with both relief and the need to release her misery, Marguerite trudged up the staircase to her room, holding herself upright with an iron grip on the banister. Feeling less than alive, but not near enough to death, she sat on the edge of her bed, staring blankly. Her mind played encore after encore of the morning's confrontation with Erik. As much as she tried to understand it, as rational as she tried to be, something still eluded her, just slipping from her grasp at the moment she thought she could take hold of it. She would never understand him, she decided. Even if they were to be reconciled—an occasion she still refused to see as totally impossible—there would always be unanswered questions—about his actions, his past, his innermost thoughts.

_I would rather have Erik, _she thought. _I'd rather have him than the answers to those questions_.

Why did she not say as much earlier? True, she was so stunned by his vehemence, his apparent repulsion at the thought of being reunited with his wife…he had so passionately insisted that she leave him.

_It's what _I've _done_, he had said. At least he did not blame her. Taking all the blame for yesterday's events was something of an improvement for him. And though he had not apologized outright, Marguerite knew he was sorry. Despite such knowledge, when she thought back to what had happened—what had _almost _happened—she felt a cringing in her stomach, a cold, unholy fear. Good lord, how things had spiraled out of control!

Images came to her mind, unwanted, of Erik plodding through a slough, pulling her along behind. He began a slow descent, as though walking down a flight of stairs buried beneath the foul mud. In front of him, Nadir tried to push him back, begging him to walk to the shore. From the solid ground, standing in the grass, Christine, clothed in a brilliant gown of sapphire blue, was laughing. Whether the laughter came from joy or from malicious glee at their predicament, Marguerite could not be sure. She looked behind her and saw Henri, up to his knees in the mire, reaching out his hand to her. She had only to grab hold…

She opened her eyes—when had she closed them? She felt the soft cushioning of the mattress on her back and wondered when she had laid down. The room was surprisingly cold for a summer afternoon...or was it already evening? For all she knew, it was still morning. Perhaps all the events of the past few days were only a nightmare, and when she looked up, she would be in their house in the country, and…

No. She was in her old bedroom in her parents' house. When she turned her gaze toward the doorway, she gasped. A dark figure stood there. It was not Erik, but she would have been less surprised if it had been.

"Papa," she whispered. "I thought you would still be at the opera house this time of the day."

"The summertime is lazy for a theater manager, you know that," he said. She nodded, and silence lay heavy upon the room. Finally, Gautier cleared his throat. "Your mother tells me that it has been a difficult time for you. A missing husband, I understand."

Her face coloring with humiliation, Marguerite turned her face downward and plucked at a stray thread on the bedcovers. "Yes," she whispered. "He…left." It choked her to speak the words, and she found herself wanting nothing more than to be isolated, and not have to think of anything. When was the last time she had been completely alone, with no one else around her to overhear a single thing?

"I suppose when you're married to an opera ghost," Gautier said, "he's bound to vanish sooner or later."

Horrified, Marguerite looked up at him. "How did you know?"

"Henri told me years ago, when he first knew of it. I did not believe him until just now, when you confirmed it by your face alone."

_Bon dieu_… "That wretch, I could kill him for this! Why can't he leave me be?"

"Marguerite, calm down," her father said. "He still loves you, no matter how much he may deny it when I ask, or how he tried to forget you by marrying that high-class harlot, Celine. He was looking out for your best interests when he told me who your husband was. I would wager just about anything that he still is."

"Just as you always were, I'm sure," she spat.

He stared at her, and she looked away, having spoken to life something she had not meant to say. He still looked at her, not so much shocked as resigned—not arrogant, but not guilty, either.

"I suppose you are referring to my disinherited you after believing you ran off, unmarried, with Marcel D'Aubigne," Gautier said quietly. "I assure you, Marguerite, that decision was reversed some time ago. I thought Henri was a bit mad when he told me he had found you, married to _le Fantôme de l'Opéra_, but I did believe that you were wed, at any rate.

"I never thought you had killed Marcel, and I told his family as much. Before his body was discovered, I thought you'd simply disgraced us, and his family as well, and I reacted out of anger and vanity, and fear of losing our position in society—and you know that was already somewhat precarious. When they found the corpse by the lake, I was sure you could not have had anything to do with it…though it did not explain that note you sent." He fell silent, as though inviting her to enter the conversation with that very explanation. She refused to oblige him. That, too, did not seem utterly shocking to him.

"I can see you still need time alone with your thoughts," he said. "I will leave you to them."

Even as he closed the door behind him, Marguerite spoke not a whisper. Being alone with her thoughts was not something she wanted once she had it, but she was not about to have a profound conversation with her father. They had never been very close, and in her entire life, Marguerite could never remember when he had set foot inside her room. At the present time, she was in no mood to appreciate a change on his part.

* * *

With a violent shudder, Erik opened his eyes and sat up. He had not been asleep; not completely. He blinked several times, recovering his senses. When he moved his hands, he felt the keys of the organ, and beneath his feet he felt the pedals. Entering a deep oblivion, he had slumped against the instrument while yet again attempting to bring something out of it. Though he played the notes and operated the pipe organ as he had always done, nothing of significance could come of it. 

How long had it been since she was here? Days, certainly—even whole weeks—and for all he knew, it was a matter of years since he had concealed himself in here of his own accord. He could not recall the last time food had passed his lips. The remaining books in his old library he had already skimmed through, while they hardly registered in his mind. He had not been able to make proper music since they had left their country home for Paris. All he had left were memories, and each one tortured him, save a few. What would drive most men to insanity in a few days, the Phantom was able to endure much longer.

That did not make it any more pleasant.

Was this even real? He might be dreaming still. The air felt cold enough, and he could hear the lake water when he bothered to listen. His mind played tricks, it was a constant reminder, and it taunted him beyond his control. At first he tried to fight the familiar voices and block them out, but then came to welcome them as his only companions, horrendous as they were.

First you try to use me, and then you think to just toss me aside? 

_I thought you loved her._

_Angel—or father? Friend—or phantom?_

_No wonder you hate the world for doing this to you. I wish I could hate you for doing it to me!_

_You are making a terrible mistake, Erik._

_What endless longings echo in this whisper?_

_You promised me_…

_This haunted face holds no horror for me now._

_Is that what this is about? Your own sullen, sorry pride?_

_Promise me that all you say is true_…

With a roar, he leapt from the organ bench, knocking it over. In the same swift motion, he lashed out with one arm and swept the few pieces of music—copies of works by other composers, left behind in their first flight from Paris—off of the organ and onto the damp stone floor. Hissing through his teeth, he paced back and forth, inwardly battling against doing the thing that his entire being cried out to do.

He could not…He must not…

He would be defeating all his resolutions, and they were difficult enough to make.

But he could not stay there any longer.

Shaking, and feeling the weakest he had felt in a long time, he grabbed his cloak and threw it around his shoulders. If it was still summertime, he would not need it for warmth, but he preferred the extra layer of concealment it afforded. When he reached Rue Scribe and stepped outside, he gasped at the impact of the warm, thick night air against the uncovered half of his face. It was like damp cloth over his mouth, smothering him after the chill below the cellars. Yes, it was still summer. He had not lost all sense of time; he could hardly stop an ordinary passer-by and inquire about the month and date.

As he crept down the street, staying clear of the streetlamps until he could find a carriage to take him elsewhere, he argued with himself and compromised his decrees. He would allow himself one glimpse of her, and nothing more. Surely it could not immerse him into an agony greater than what he had been suffering. Even his stomach did not cramp and beg him for food, but his eyes craved a single glance, the briefest look, to satisfy him for a time. His ears longed for her voice, and his fingers twitched with yearning at the thought of feeling her skin beneath them. But those things he had to refuse himself.

Over the past few weeks, he had gone several times to the wardrobe in the Louis-Philippe room and removed a dress, musty and absurdly out of style. Clutching it like the relic of a holy, long-dead saint, he had stroked the silk and fingered the lace, wishing to see it worn by the object of his deepest affection. It did not carry her scent, and she most likely never wore it, but she _had _touched it. It was the closest thing to her that he possessed. Once, he even fell asleep—on the bed she had slept in, though it had been stripped of its coverings years ago—holding the garment close, as a child holds a doll or favorite toy for comfort.

Now, his stomach shuddered when he thought of it as he was jostled about. Really, the carriage should have been taken out of commission years ago. His gaze moved to the window several times, but the darkness did not allow much of a view. Only by calculating the journey's duration did he recognize its end. At last, the vehicle came to a halt; and so, he thought, did his pulse.

A cat meowed, genuinely startling him. _Beatrice?_ he thought immediately, leaning his head out of the window. But no, it was a black-and-white feline, skinny and skittish.

Disappointed, and realizing his delusion, he slumped back in his seat. The driver coughed discreetly, but Erik pretended not to hear him. Twisting his neck to look up at the house, he put his head outside of the window again. Lights glimmered dimly in a few windows, but it appeared the household had retired for the night. The structure itself looked sleepy but guarded, as though it actively protected its inhabitants, and he would be refused entrance if he tried to go in. Ridiculous, perhaps, to imagine a house like _this _would be so alive. Even in his dubious state of mind, Erik told himself he could construct a more vivacious building than this vile monument to _nouveau riche_ vanity.

Mad indeed, he must have been! For _she _was inside—he had come to see _her_, however briefly and anonymously. Yet here he was, looking up at what might be her bedroom window, and he was scorning the architecture!

He was too close…He could have stormed up those steps and broken down the door, or a window. More likely, he could have entered the house by quieter methods. Once inside, he assumed that only a hallway and a door would then stand between them. They could be reunited so quickly. It could be tonight. His misery would be at an end.

_And hers would begin afresh_, he told himself. That simple statement was enough to remind him of what he was sacrificing for her. He had his chance, and he had wasted it—it was time to let her have her own. She had her own life to live, while his had ended some time ago. By now, of course, she would be making brave, sensible attempts to move on; he was certain of it. Everything would be all right for her, and was that not what he had wanted?

Yes, it was. Even so, he stared up at the house, silently begging her to come to the window and see him there. She would open it, and notice him, and extend her hand and say…

I hate you for doing this to me! 

_Please,_ he thought, _let me see her this once_. But she never appeared.

The driver coughed again. This time, Erik withdrew his head with a weary sigh, and leaned back into the seat.

"Drive on," he said, just loud enough for the man to hear him.

With a snap of the reins, the carriage continued, eventually turning around and going back the way it had come.

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	43. What Answer Can I Give?

**A/N: I'll be completely honest with you here: I'm not particularly fond of this chapter. I think it's crap, and weak. However, I'm finally posting it because not only has it taken me forever, but everything that happens in it _needed _to happen, and so I made it as un-horrible as it's going to be. Since I'm back at college for my senior year, I'm afraid the new chapters won't be coming any faster, but again, even though I'm losing my touch, I am not going to leave this story unfinished, no matter how long that may take. You have my word on that.**

**P.S. I'm taking a Russian literature class this semester. Amazing. Brilliant. Mesmerizing. Alexander Pushkin is hilarious!**

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She took another sip of tea, grimacing at the bite of ginger upon her tongue. For an entire week, she had not suffered any morning sickness, and believed she was beyond that point for good. Unfortunately, the weakening nausea had returned that morning, lasting the entire day. Her mother insisted that a little ginger in her tea would do the trick, but it had failed to relieve her. Marguerite knew the true cause of her discomfort. For what was at least the twentieth time in as many minutes, she sat up a little straighter to glance out the window, even though it was bright daylight and she was not expecting visitors—except for the one already in her parents' parlor.

"I think that was him last night," she said, apparently unaware that this was the third time she had spoken those very words since her visitor had arrived. "I'm almost sure of it now."

"Perhaps the carriage was full of tourists unable to locate their hotel," Henri said, trying to stifle a frustrated groan.

Marguerite shook her head absently, frowning as she thought. "I don't think so…the driver should have been able to tell them something like that. But it stopped right there, in front of the house. It just…stopped."

"No one got out?" Henri asked, bored and already knowing the answer to the question. He was trying his best to humor her for the present.

"Not that I could see. Then…it was…_gone_. It kept going, as if…I don't know…" She chewed her lower lip, her mind drifting elsewhere. "I believe that was Erik. Do you think that could have been him?"

"Marguerite…I don't know."

Her jaw set, she grasped the arms of her chair until her nails dug into the upholstery. "You've spoken very little since you arrived. Why did you bother to come here at all?"

"Please don't…don't do that," Henri said, his voice betraying some anxiety. "I came to see if I could do anything to help you feel better, but…" He sighed. "Marguerite, it…it has been a fortnight since you…heard from him. I wonder why you would believe so strongly that it was he who drove past this house only last night."

"Because it was," she whispered.

A wave of frustration washed over him, and Henri frowned more deeply. "I came to offer some kind of solace or distraction," Henri said. There emerged a hint of petulance in his voice before he could withhold it, and he felt a disquieting shame at his impatience. Even so, he rose from the chair, clearing his throat and lifting his chin slightly. "I see now that my time and my presence would be more useful elsewhere." He turned and took several strides toward the doorway, but when he heard neither protest nor encouragement from Marguerite—indeed, nothing at all—both his footsteps and his resolve slowed to a halt before he left the room.

When he looked back at Marguerite, he sighed again, this time a small breath of weariness and defeat. Despite her expanding abdomen, she looked tiny and pathetic in the large, ornate chair. She stared at the floor, her fingers twisting and worrying at each other's nails. On her face, pinched and in want of color, she wore an expression of such anguish and desperation that Henri's facade was shattered. He walked back across the room and knelt beside her chair. For all his attempts, he could not remain aloof; he could not pretend not to care. After a few more moments, he began to fear that she had silently lost her mind after all, for still she did not speak, behaving as though she did not know him. Only the shallow rise and fall of her torso told him she was even alive.

He drew in a breath, preparing to speak, when she blinked, her eyes slowly filling with tears.

"Why did he come here?" she whispered. "Why would he, if not to speak to me, if not to reunite us?"

"I could not possibly have an answer for you," Henri said. Though he knew she did not really want an answer from him, he could not resist supplying his best attempt. "If _I_ were your husband, I certainly could not bear such a separation."

He had cause to regret his words as soon as they left his tongue. Marguerite turned her head to face him, bestowing a dark look that destroyed any idea of witlessness about her. His words seemed to awaken her to reality once more. The chill in her eyes burned a hole into his chest, and for the first time, Henri actually felt afraid of her. In that one look, she reminded him vividly of her husband, pulling in memories of that dark, dank cellar, the noose wrapped tightly around his throat, and the sound of her pleading with Erik to be reasonable and let Henri go.

_Mon dieu_, he thought. _She really must be insane._

Insane or not, he could not bear the sight of this woman, toward whom he possessed such affection, destroying herself over a man a thousand times her inferior.

"That may be, but you are _not _my husband," Marguerite said, with a voice even colder than her expression, "and that you know full well."

He took half a second to compose himself and suppress his brief moment of terror. "You know I would give anything that I _could _be," he said. A risky statement, of course, but he was not speaking to Erik, after all, who carried a lasso that killed quicker than the imagination. Marguerite was not only unarmed and weaker than he was, but _enceinte_. If Henri angered her further, all she could do was scream at him, or take a swipe at him with her nails, like a cornered cat. Either way seemed unlikely.

Instead, she turned her face away from him again. "I don't understand you," she murmured. "We are both married, you and I, to other persons. I do not understand why you should want me at all, particularly after all these years…"

Henri shrugged. "I cannot help that I did not forget you, Marguerite. I already told you why I fell in love with you. As for our marriages…forgive me, my dear, but your husband has clearly left you for good. And Celine…well, with a bribe of the right size she would willingly turn her back on me forever. If you would only say the word, in a short amount of time we could be free."

Still kneeling, he reached out to the arm of the chair and covered her white, trembling hand with his own. Immediately she yanked it out of his grasp, shifting her weight to create the appearance of distancing herself from him, though she remained seated in the chair.

"I am not free," she said. "I will never be free of him. We are still married, no matter what you may say or how you try to phrase it. Why would you want me? For my heart? I gave mine to Erik a long time ago, and no matter how far away he is or for how long, it is still his, and no one else's._ Freedom_ is loving someone wholeheartedly, and having that love returned, knowing you may be secure in that love, no matter what comes. Love is not a prison unless the parties are separated, and then they are trapped in the cruelest agony, as I am now from being forced away from the one I love."

Henri opened his mouth to interrupt, but she kept speaking.

"What else would you want, Henri? My body? If it's carnal satisfaction you crave, you are in the perfect city to slake it. Take your pretty carriage to the nearest whorehouse, the nearest dance hall, or better yet, suppress your desires long enough to join your wife in Italy. If she is as financially lustful as you claim, she will not refuse your touch. Perhaps she'll remember who pays for her transportation and thank you accordingly!"

His mouth was still open, but he was only gaping now, his face flooding with heat and color, shocked at the words that flowed so freely out of her mouth.

Marguerite smiled, chillingly bitter. "Besides…I am carrying my husband's child. While I may not be the very picture of health at the moment, in a few weeks my complexion will grow ruddy, my ankles will swell, my stomach will expand to unimaginable proportions, and fatigue will dominate my days. I can't imagine who might possibly resist such an enticing vision."

"But that is not a permanent—"

"In another few weeks," she interrupted, "at best a couple of months, what little beauty I may have will be gone. I shall be flushed and bloated, and not fit to be seen. I'll be angry, or miserable, or both, and you'll think I've gone quite mad…if you haven't decided that already. I'll be in a foul temper, and a great deal of pain, and unable to be satisfied with anything. And when it's all over, the child that comes forth from my body will—not—be—_yours_."

She glared at him, challenging him to deliver a gratifying answer. "Do you think you could even dream of managing in such circumstances?"

Stunned and nervous at her outburst, at the horrifying truth in what she said, Henri's throat went dry. At last, "Perhaps I could adapt," was all he could bring himself to say.

For the first time, he made himself seriously consider the consequences if he did leave Celine for an old flame who had appeared out of apparently nowhere—and pregnant. _Good God, the scandal!_

His parents would…well, he did not even want to think about what they would do.

In the meantime, Marguerite laughed harshly at his vague statement, but quickly sobered. "I suppose that is all I could ask for at this point in time."

His eyebrows rose at her tone. "Have you decided to seriously consider my offer?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "That is indeed something you share with Erik—your tenacity. Though you possess a mere particle of his intellect."

They stared at each other for a short while, until Marguerite's face wrinkled and collapsed. She brought her hands up to cover it, sobbing and bending over until all Henri could see was a curtain of dark hair.

"_Bon dieu_, I miss him so much!" She gasped and coughed around her tears as though she could not draw enough air. "Henri, you don't understand…he's so stubborn…he thinks this is for my own good…he would never agree to come back. I need…I need to hear his voice again…I need to see him…Oh, I _hate_ him for doing this to me!"

Once again unsure of what to do, Henri watched her cry, deeply disturbed. Rather than be discouraged that she would never recover the loss of her husband and turn to him instead, Henri felt an even stronger desire to comfort her and look after her. Could he possibly develop such feelings toward the child inside her? He shuddered. _The idea!_

Curse that bastard, Erik, for putting her through this! What could the man be thinking? That he would find someone better, someone else who would love him this much? With _that _face? Hardly!

Shaking his head, Henri was about to say something. Then, deciding it could wait until later, he risked her wrath again by reaching out to place a hand on her shoulder. She did not flinch away, but she did not acknowledge it, either.

"I'm indescribably sorry about all that has happened to you," he said. "Perhaps…perhaps I ought to leave you now…you seem to need to rest…" As he spoke, he slowly rose to his feet.

"No!" As quickly as she had resisted his touch earlier, one of Marguerite's hand shot out and grasped his sleeve. Tears still streaming, she looked up at him, apparently desperate. "Don't go," she whispered, her voice as harsh as dead leaves. "Don't leave me here alone, please…I…I couldn't bear to be left alone now."

In his own mind, Henri grinned and danced around the room with glee. Out loud, unsmiling, he said, "Surely your mother, or…"

"My mother is out shopping again, with—" She almost said "my daughter," but stopped herself at the last minute, her heart beating rapidly. She had one last secret from Henri, one piece of leverage she was prepared to launch against him when she had the reason. But for now, he could not know of Solange's existence. Marguerite still had no idea why.

"With a friend," she finished. "I will go mad for certain if I stay here alone. And I simply cannot go out in public now." She pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her face, still gulping for air as she tried to calm herself.

"What a pity," Henri murmured. "I should very much like to take you on an outing. To the theater, perhaps." At Marguerite's look of horror, he flushed at his error and corrected himself. "I meant the _Opéra-Comique_, of course." He laid a hand on her head, "Then again, for the sake of both our reputations, I suppose even that would be impossible."

"I don't have much of a reputation to protect," she said. "Especially with you telling all of Paris that I am married to _le Fantôme de l'Opéra_."

Henri's jaw dropped, and he pulled his hand away from her as though it burned his palm. "I have done no such thing! Who would believe me?"

"My father knows. _And _believes."

"But I swear to you, he's the only one! And that was years ago. I told him I would pass along what information I discovered about his missing daughter. Once you were gone…so was the information. I know for a fact that he told no one."

"Yes…as you said, who would believe him? He didn't believe you, either, until seeing me again. He _knows_ what is going on. More so than my mother, in fact, for even she doesn't know who I have married, and _she _met him face-to-face."

Henri knelt beside her seat again, trying to catch her eye. "Marguerite, please forgive me for being so meddlesome. I loved you then as I love you still, and I wanted to know…I wanted to make sure you were all right. Perhaps it was partly out of my own arrogance, but I care so much for you. I never thought he was good enough for you."

"Who—Erik or Marcel?"

He smiled ruefully. "Both, I suppose."

Marguerite rolled her eyes. "And you thought you _were?_"

"Well…not quite. But I was convinced within myself that I would appreciate you the most of anyone. You were always so sweet to me…before you, all I'd received was scorn from other young ladies. Although I had just as much money as the other young men, I was never as handsome. I never really knew what it meant to be unbearably jealous until I found out about you and…_Erik_." He spoke the name quietly and cautiously, like a disgusting curse he was afraid to overuse.

"Henri, the reason I was so sweet was because I could afford to be so. I never cared all that much, and so I never worried about how much courtesy I was paying you or not paying you." Now that she was somewhat at ease, Marguerite could be a bit more brutally honest, albeit with a smile. "If you were not so bloody determined and nice yourself, I would be obliged to hate you very much!"

Responding to her lighter mood, Henri smiled as well. If such changes in temper were to be blamed on her condition, at least they did not last long. "I suppose I can take that to mean there may be hope for me yet." When she again scowled honestly at him, he merely laughed and changed the subject.

By now, after two weeks without her husband, Marguerite was grateful for Henri's company. But she never forgot for a moment what was really happening.

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"I'm so glad that you decided to come visit me again," Mme Giry said with a smile.

She was free of sarcasm or resentment that he had not come sooner, but that did nothing to allay Erik's guilt. It had now been a full month since he had seen her last, and while the previous visit ended tragically, he realized he should not have waited so long. Her health's decline had escalated, and her eyesight was half of what it used to be. If he had thought she looked like a broken old woman before, Erik now wondered if she wasn't more a living corpse than he.

The one good to come out of Mme Giry's illness was a milder Meg. Distressed by her mother's condition and stretched thin from the duties of trying to alleviate it, the dancer was almost relieved to see Erik when she had opened the door to his knock. While his presence still obviously disturbed her, she seemed neither cowering nor antagonistic, and Erik found it easier to talk to Mme Giry, even with the woman's daughter and the nurse in the same room.

The nurse, unfortunately, had been forced to endure a private and harsh evaluation of her methods when Erik saw how her patient had failed to recover.

"I assure you, _monsieur_, that it is not a question of money. You have been more than generous in compensating for her care, and—"

"I am not interested in your flattery!" Erik had barked at her. "I want to know why she is not recovering!"

"I am doing all I can for her, _monsieur_. There are medicines to soothe her pain, but in all honesty, she is old, and weak, and her time may come sooner than we would like it to."

"Not if I have anything to say about it."

The nurse frowned at Erik's hubris, but kept speaking. "She is an exceptional patient and I shall be sorry indeed to see her leave this world. But I cannot do everything. Even if you gave us all the money you could ever obtain, we probably could not find a cure for her. It may simply be her time to go."

Unable to argue further, Erik had dismissed the woman with a careless wave of his hand, leaving her to assemble the next medication for her patient. He sat at Mme Giry's bedside, unable to speak.

What if she were to die at that moment; what if this breath she was drawing now was her last? Erik felt ill at the thought. If he had to observe her demise, if he had to watch the light escape her eyes and listen to that last desperate rattle of breath, he did not know how he would be able to return to the _Opera Populaire _with a sound mind. Human comfort would undoubtedly be beyond his reach.

Erik's fears did not come true, as every few seconds brought Mme Giry a new mouthful of air. At least she still possessed a sound mind. As horrific as the idea of watching her die seemed to Erik, even worse would be to witness the descent of such an admirable woman into madness, into another childhood, into idiocy. He had expected it the first time he visited her in her illness, and he feared for it still.

"Where is Marguerite today?" Mme Giry asked him innocently.

His heart was in his throat, and he had to swallow before he could answer. "I don't know."

"You don't _know?_" She frowned, not seeming to understand. "Shouldn't you _know_ something like that?"

"Not quite," he answered. "She was…That is, we…I realized that I was doing her more harm than good, and I decided she would be better off with her own family, and finding someone else more worthy of her."

Erik was becoming quite adept at convincing himself that he had been doing a noble deed of self-sacrifice on Marguerite's behalf. When he had to speak it out loud—to Nadir, and now to Mme Giry—it was sounding more and more contrived and feeble.

The silence before Mme Giry spoke again made him believe she thought the very same thing.

"_You_ decided?"

He nodded. "She would have stayed with me if I had not initiated the separation."

"_Mon dieu_, Erik, she's pregnant! You…your wife…and daughter…you just…you cannot simply…She's pregnant!" She stopped her stammering, apparently unable to phrase her indignation properly.

He began to tremble with anger, either at the old woman or himself. As if he did not know that already! "And I do not deserve to see our daughter again."

The conversation came to a sudden halt as Mme Giry suddenly succumbed to a coughing fit. Erik jumped to his feet as though shocked by an electric current and shouted for the nurse. By the time the woman came into the room, however, the coughing had ceased, and Giry waved her away. She did not even acknowledge the incident, and continued her criticism toward her visitor.

"You _must _be joking. Erik, please tell me you're only teasing."

He stared at her, and then shook his head to collect his thoughts as he recovered from the shock she had just given him. "I am as serious as I have ever been in my entire life. I did what I thought was best for her."

If he gave up and found her again—was she even still in Paris?—he would condemn her to a life of misery. It was all he was going to give anyone, no matter how hard he might try otherwise. It was in his nature; it was his burden to bear, God only knew why. How was he going to convince others of that? Not as though he had to convince anyone. What was done was done.

"I can't bear to hear this," Mme Giry said, closing her eyes painfully. Not a second later, however, she opened them again, and asked, "How long has this been going on?"

"The day after I was last here…a month, nearly." He turned his masked face to look out of the window, the cracked glass coated with a thick layer of grime. Perhaps he ought to provide a housekeeper, as well. Apparently little Meg thought such tasks to be beneath her, even though she ought to have realized that her mother deserved to die in a cleaner place than this. The air was oppressive in the room, too, although it was dark outside and the evening air was cooling rapidly.

"Hopefully she will have recovered from the initial shock by now," he murmured.

"If she has, then I have much less respect for her than before," Mme Giry said huffily. She did not speak as the nurse came into the room again and administered yet another medicine. This time, Erik ignored her, not even asking what this particular concoction was supposed to do. He had already tried to dole out his own remedies to the old woman, but she would have none of it. _Did she know about Nadir's son? _Erik wondered.

The nurse left the room again, followed by Meg, who left to take care of a few swift errands. Mme Giry started the conversation precisely where they had left off, leaving Erik almost wishing that she _had _begun to show signs of senility.

"Is that what you had been hoping for, Erik? That she would recover from the shock of your leaving her?" When he did not say anything, she struggled to sit upright. Her thin arms shook violently with the strain of her own slight weight, and Erik, alarmed, rushed to help her. When she was nicely propped up against the pillows, she sighed and smoothed the thin sheet over herself.

"What if, for argument's sake, she does recover the way you say she will? Perhaps she had to find someone else, another man, to comfort her in her distress. What do you make of that, may I ask?"

Erik sighed again, wishing he had not come today, wishing that he had lied about Marguerite's whereabouts. It would have been very easy. A polite little phrase with the proper inflection of his voice, and she would find just about anything satisfactory. But like Nadir, and Marguerite, as well, Antoinette Giry somehow knew how to drain the truth out of him, no matter how he resisted it. His voice was a less deadly weapon for her. She was nearly immune by now; her will had been too strong to begin with.

"She deserves someone better than me," he murmured. "She shouldn't have to live with me if I'm going to make her and her children miserable."

If he had been looking at the old woman at that moment, he would have been tempted to laugh at the comical expression of pure confusion on her face. After being struck dumb for a moment, she began sputtering again until the words she wanted began to freely flow.

"Did you kidnap this woman, Erik? Did you seduce her behind a mirror or threaten her fiancée? Did you take advantage of her orphaned state or beg for her eternal devotion? She had a _choice_, and she chose you. Should that not count for anything?"

Erik finally looked at her. A muscle twitched in his jaw, and he stood up.

"I must take my leave now. I hope you're better when I return." He broke eye contact with her only to give a little bow.

Mme Giry offered him no smile or good wishes. "When you return, you had better have her with you. Or at least a little more common sense."

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**A/N: The site is being weird, so the scene-separator line thingys aren't up to snuff, just FYI. I'll try to correct it later.**


	44. An Old Friend

**A/N: Yay! A faster update! Thanks for the support for the last chapter. You're always your own worst critic, right?  
Anyway, there are some new developments in this chapter that I'm very much looking forward to. I had a few brainwaves over the past few days, and I'm very excited. Hmmm, shall I tell you anything else? No, that's not necessary...read on!  
**

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He needed some air.

The fifth cellar had become stifling as he paced across the damp stone floor, the thoughts turning over and over in his head, as though his very brains were loose and tumbling. He could not forget Mme Giry's words—parting or otherwise—from their last visit. Somehow, the comfort they might have provided would not settle into his heart. What if he had failed? All this torture, this heartache…what if it had all been in vain?

His mind conjured a picture of Marguerite in her parents' house, clutching Solange and weeping for her missing husband. Erik pushed the thought away with all the mental strength he had left. It could not be that way. He wouldn't let her mourn for him! She had better things to do. Was that not why he had left her in the first place?

After leaving Mme Giry's apartment, Erik had not immediately returned to the opera house. Instead of his wife, he went to find the man to whom Mme Giry had entrusted Erik's accounts. Although clever, M Jerome Rivard was unsuccessful in his efforts to suppress the wary curiosity he felt upon seeing his masked and hooded employer in the flesh. In spite of this, Erik could not bring himself to either hate or discharge the young man. Giry trusted him entirely, and he had at least _tried_ not to be shocked by Erik's bizarre appearance and odd inquiries. It was enough for now.

Erik had no idea why he would need such a large amount of cash on hand, but the desire had come to him, and he needed to obey it. With Mme Giry aged and bedridden, the accountant was Erik's only choice in obtaining his savings. Once the money was on his person, he hurried back to the opera house, like a spider after devouring the catch in its web.

Back in his lair, Erik threw his cloak aside and sat down to stare at the wads of paper francs in his hands. The desire to take the money, find Marguerite, and once more flee the city was almost overpowering. At last he suppressed it. He could not get her back without first knowing how she fared. He had to see for himself if she _was _better off without him, as he had insisted so strongly. But how to find out? Trundling around the city at night would get him nowhere, and if he should find her in the daytime, she would notice him far too quickly.

He shoved most of the money into a desk drawer, tucking the rest into his pocket. Despairing thoughts chased him like Harpies until he thought he would suffocate, and he finally decided to head toward the theater roof. A small voice warned him against it; after all, it had already been a source of much anguish and conflict in his life. But common sense be damned, he kept up his ascent, through narrow corridors and up wobbly stairs. The sun was setting when he stepped outside, and its blazing orange light spilled across the stones and metal around him.

Erik had always viewed sunsets with gratitude. Others may mourn the end of another day, but the Phantom welcomed it. The setting sun heralded the beginning of night, the coming of his shelter, which would release him from the captivity of daytime and bestow the security he found in darkness. For a few moments of bliss, he drank in the colors and the mesmerizing shapes of the gray, purple, and yellow clouds.

Unfortunately, he had not left his thoughts behind in the cellars. On the rooftop, he was forced to recall, as he knew he must, the times he had spied on Christine and Raoul during their secret trysts, their plot to free themselves of his power. He thought of Marguerite, of when he had carried her up here, furious at her drunkenness and demanding an explanation. Why had he gotten so angry then? He could not think of a decent explanation. He could not have been thinking clearly, in any of those occasions…

_You haven't been thinking clearly lately, either!_ came that voice in his head, the only reasonable sound he heard outside of Mme Giry's rebukes. He could not listen to it. Whatever mistakes he made, they were done. Whatever mistakes he would make in the future…they were his to make! He would not succumb to the pressures of some strange presence inside his own head, no matter how much sense it might make.

Without realizing it, he reached out one hand to caress the building's stone. So much of his life, so much of his joy and agony, was wrapped up in this theater. Perhaps it was the only place where he had a future. He thought back—with difficulty—to the years before Marguerite, even before Christine, when it had been only himself and this structure—his creation, his lover, his protégé. Back then, he had been inebriated with his own talent, his ingenuity, his _power_…the sway he held over the managers and the entire cast…over the voice and the mind of a very young woman…

A sneeze from elsewhere on the roof abruptly ended his reverie. Startled and livid, he looked around for the sound's source, at last peeking over part of the roof to see another balcony. Fortunately, the culprit had not seen him—otherwise, Erik would have been obliged to kill…

Her? 

He squinted his eyes, his heart pounding until he realized that the woman staring out into the distance had light brown hair, slightly wavy, made redder by the sunset's light upon it. It was neither curly and coffee-colored, nor black and straight. When she turned her head, he caught her profile, and frowned. He knew this woman, but she was not someone he had been hoping to see, even after several years.

What was her name? _Katie_…

She lifted a hand to scratch her nose, and he blinked in surprise at the size of her arm. It was no wider than the spoke of a wheel! She looked as though she could have broken cleanly in half if he was inclined to hook the Punjab lasso around her waist. Was she ill? There was a wretched darkness under her eyes; she looked twenty years older. Marguerite might have mentioned that she had suffered some kind of loss, but Erik could not remember…he rarely paid attention when she had spoken of Katie. Meg Giry had been the only ballerina that was ever of any use to him.

He stifled a gasp of revelation as an idea trickled into his mind, growing…

_Of use to him_…

Why not? 

He crept across the roof, as quietly as possible, feeling every bit a spider. When he was closer to her, but still hidden from her view, he silently cleared his throat and prepared himself to do what he did best.

"_Katie_…" he whispered, sending his voice to the statue beside her. "_After all this time, I see you now_._ It has been years_…"

Her head snapped up when she heard her name, and he could hear her breathing come faster. She looked around frantically for the voice's body, but could not see him. Pleased, he smiled to himself until she whispered, "_Monsieur le Fantôme?_ Erik?"

_Damn_.

He sighed, annoyed at the familiar tone with which she addressed him. "You were expecting Romeo, perhaps?"

Instead of fear, as he had been hoping to see, her eyes brightened, and she smiled as she glanced around, calmer this time. That smile dropped those twenty years from her face, and she looked more familiar. "Marguerite! Is Marguerite there? I can hardly see, it's getting so dark. Where are you?"

Convinced she was completely alone, Erik stood up from his hiding and came toward her. Blanching, she backed up against the stone barrier and gripped it with one hand. Once he was in sight, all her old fears of the Opera Ghost came sweeping back, no matter how much she wanted to see Marguerite. He did not hold back his satisfied smile when he saw how she still trembled in fear of him and avoided his eyes.

"Isn't she with you?" the young woman murmured, her cheeks now colored as though she was about to be sick.

"It just so happens," Erik said evenly, "she is not."

"Oh." Katie's eyes swept across the floor, avoiding even Erik's shoes. "Where is she, then? We haven't corresponded in…quite some time…I'm afraid it's been my fault…"

"To be honest, that is precisely what I was about to speak of with you." In her confusion, Katie lifted her gaze to Erik's, only to quickly turn her face to the left a bit and look over his shoulder. "I cannot tell you exactly where she is, you see, because I do not know myself."

This time, Katie stared openly at him. "Did she run away?"

He frowned, resisting the urge to give her a sound slap across the face. "That would be no shock to you, would it?" he asked coldly.

The color came back to Katie's face with full force. "I…I didn't mean anything…"

"Of course not," he grumbled, "no one ever does, do they?" When she fell silent, sufficiently embarrassed, he continued with his explanation. "Marguerite is probably still in the city. If she is, then I want you to find her. If you have difficulty in finding her here, or you discover that she is no longer in the city, then you will resume correspondence with her, at the same address. Once you've discovered her whereabouts, you will come back here and let me know. After that, I want you to meet me here, every day, at quarter to midnight to give a full report."

The dancer's eyes gleamed with the prospect of new gossip. "Do you think she's taken a lover?"

_These stupid ballerinas never change!_ Erik thought. _The same, all of them!_ "No," he said out loud, hoping his tone of voice aptly conveyed the danger of such foolish questions. Judging by her face, Katie understood him quite nicely. "You will ask me no questions, unless for some reason you fail to comprehend my instructions."

She nodded.

"I will compensate you for your time. You will find me a very _generous_ employer, though one not to cross." Just to make sure she was aware of what sort of transaction he had in mind, he pulled out some of his cash and handed her twenty francs. "Take this in advance. You look as though you sorely need it."

She took the money as though in a daze, staring at it, hardly able to believe it was real. Pressing her lips together until they curled inward, she looked about to weep. Erik shifted his weight uncomfortably, hoping she would not make a scene.

"What happened?" she whispered, in direct disobedience of his orders. "Marguerite and I became close friends, even though we only saw each other a few times. Why aren't you in the country anymore? She hated the city…she told me…" Katie looked at the money again. "Did she tell you what happened to me?"

"Possibly," he said carelessly. "But I'm not in the least interested!"

She frowned at him, and her grip on the money tightened. "I lost my husband," she said. "I'd give anything to have him back. What happened between you and Marguerite? She never told me…that anything was wrong."

Scowling, Erik turned away from her. "That is none of your business."

"But…you're paying me to spy on her?"

"Yes." He looked at her over his shoulder. "As I said before, you are not to ask questions."

"You can't tell me anything else?"

"_No!_"

Katie hesitated, looking at the francs in her hand. He was right; she sorely needed the cash. The _Populaire_ had been desperate in hiring her as an assistant to the ballet mistress, to get the _corps du ballet_—not quite up to standard—ready for the fall season. Katie had been so desperate for work, she had agreed to a salary of next to nothing. Rupert had not left her much when he died, for they had little when he lived.

But to spy on a friend! Was she that wretched?

"I suppose I will ask Marguerite when I see her," she murmured.

Erik snorted. "Yes, do that, won't you? I want to know if she has thanked me yet." When she looked at him, confused, he shook his head firmly, discouraging other questions.

Katie sighed. "All right, then. How will I find you once I've learned something?"

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Mama, I'm _bored_," Solange said.

It had to be at least the fourth time in that day Marguerite had heard that phrase from her daughter. For weeks, until she was too large and was forced into confinement, Marguerite had gone with her mother and daughter to shop for toys, books, piano music, and anything else that might occupy Solange. Having gone three-and-a-half years without seeing her granddaughter, Isabelle was now prepared to spare no expense in spoiling her. But Solange tired easily of the games and stories; when she was not napping, she needed constant stimulation.

Marguerite looked at her daughter with weary resignation. Erik would have been able to keep her tempered and busy. He had been in charge of most of her lessons, particularly music, language, and mathematics. Isabelle and Marguerite tried to teach Solange the things they knew best—domestic activities, such as sewing, since despite her age both Solange's fingers and mind were especially quick. For whatever reason, she fussed and pouted whenever either woman tried to start her on a sampler. She was bored with being read to, though she showed little signs of picking up the skill herself. She began to run around the house, laughing for no particular reason and colliding into furniture, almost breaking some very valuable articles. The only time she could be persuaded to sit still was to play the piano, and so Marguerite had been forced to use it as a sort of punishment, demanding that Solange practice when she had become too unruly.

Solange's _ennui _led to petulance, which went unchecked more often than not. Marguerite, growing larger by the day it seemed, lacked the energy and aptitude to restrain what threatened to become irrepressible mischief. Isabelle adored the child with a blindness that refused to acknowledge the alarming course of her granddaughter's attitude. Having seen little of him, Solange might have responded to discipline from her grandfather, but his absence prevented that very thing.

"Well, what do you want to do?" Marguerite asked her daughter, stretching out on the bed in her old room. She felt like a cow before the slaughter, and it was only going to get worse.

"I want Papa to come back! I want to go _home!_"

"We can't go home yet, Solange. I can't go anywhere until the baby comes."

"_Why?_" she whined.

Marguerite gritted her teeth, trying to keep her patience. "It's not safe for me or the baby. Do you want us to get hurt bouncing around in a carriage on the way home?"

"No," Solange said, pouting. The projection of her lip was much less endearing than it used to be. After a moment, she stomped one foot on the carpet. "Why can't the baby come _now?_"

"I have no control over that—believe me, Solange, I wish I did! For the love of heaven, stop _pestering_ me!" She shifted her weight on the mattress. "I can feel the baby moving inside, and it's making me tired."

Solange quieted, her eyes widening a little. If she were a cat or a dog, Marguerite would have seen her ears perk up. "You can feel it moving?"

"Yes." She found herself smiling. "You can come put your hand on my tummy and see if you can feel it too. It might be too early. The baby has to grow a little bit more, and it'll start to really kick."

Slightly awed, Solange approached her mother cautiously, reaching out a tiny hand. Marguerite guided it over the spot where she felt the most movement. After a few seconds, Solange frowned again.

"I don't feel anything."

"Well, I said it might be too early."

Solange sighed. "This is boring. Babies are boring!" She folded her arms and flopped down on the floor. Scowling as she did, Marguerite thought that perhaps Solange _did _look like her father a little. Even as young as she was, her pretty little features changed into something more ghastly when she was angry or crying.

"You might feel differently once the baby is actually _here_," Marguerite said softly.

"I don't want the baby to come!" Solange said, getting to her feet again. "I don't want the baby to be here! I want to go home, and I want to see Papa! Why hasn't Papa come yet? You said he would be coming soon. I want him to come and take us _home!_"

Aggravated, Marguerite covered her face with her hands and screamed, "_Mother!_" In a short time, Isabelle appeared in the doorway, looking fearful.

"Darling, what happened?"

She stared at her mother with an almost wild-eyed expression. "Find this child something to do. Get her out of here—just leave me alone so I can rest! I'm tired of her questions. Engage her in something, _please!_"

Afraid to ask any further questions, Isabelle took a stricken Solange by the hand and led her out of the room. When she was alone, Marguerite covered her face with her hands again, letting the tears ooze through her fingers and dampen her palms.

"_Bon dieu_, Erik," she whispered, "what are you doing to us?"

It was not until later that Isabelle brought Solange back into the room. The child's eyes were puffy and her nose was red, as though she had been crying as well. Isabelle had a determined expression on her face, something that had become quite unusual in the past few weeks.

"You hurt Solange's feelings earlier," she said. "She wants to say something to you."

Marguerite swallowed, her throat burning, and stretched out her hand. "Yes, _petit?_ What did you want to tell me?"

Solange came toward her, much more shyly now. "I'm sorry I made you tired, Mama. I don't want you to be angry at me." She took her mother's hand, and Marguerite squeezed it tightly before stroking her face.

"Oh, _mon ange_," she said, "I'm so sorry for shouting." She barely noticed when Isabelle quietly slipped out of the room after there was a knock at the door. "But I need you to be a good girl for me. I promise you, you will love this baby brother or sister when it comes."

Sitting up, she helped Solange join her on the bed. "I love you, Solange, but I need you to help me, all right? When Papa comes back, I don't want to have to tell him you've been behaving badly."

Solange's shoulders sagged. "When _is _Papa coming back?"

Marguerite closed her eyes. "I don't know, Solange. He didn't say…" The mention of Erik, instead of despair or anger, now filled her with an exhausted dread. She was tired of hoping he would come back, but still wishing he would. Yet she was beginning to believe he really intended to keep his word, and never return to them.

She opened her eyes again when she heard footsteps on the staircase. Her father was not home yet, and her mother's shoes did not make that sound. Marguerite's mouth went dry, and she reached out for Solange, holding the little girl against her body. Suddenly breathing came as a struggle.

"Mama?" Solange said. She wriggled free, and then caught the same sound her mother had heard on the stairs. "Who's coming?"

When Henri appeared in the doorway, Marguerite wanted to sink into the cushions and die, taking her daughter with her. He stood frozen in place, his prepared smile completely wiped away. His eyes were wide as he stared at Solange, stunned, disbelieving, and crestfallen. It was the same expression as when he discovered Marguerite in the Phantom's lair.

"Well, _this_," he said softly, tripping over his words, "was not what I had expected to see."

"Mama," Solange whispered, loudly enough for Henri to hear, "who's that?"

Hearing Marguerite addressed as "Mama" sent a shudder through Henri's entire body, and he stepped back, out of the doorway and into the hall once again.

"You never told me…" he mumbled.

"Please," Marguerite said, "not now!"

"No wonder your mother didn't seemed particularly happy to see me today."

"Henri," she pleaded, "just go. Come back another time if you must, but please…for now…_go away_."

He had not been able to take his focus off of Solange. Was that a glimmer of disgust Marguerite saw in his eyes? He shuddered again, a little less than before. Without saying another word, he took Marguerite completely by surprise and did exactly what she had asked him to do. Bowing stiffly, still wearing a dazed expression, he turned his back on both of them and went downstairs and out the door. Solange watched him go, puzzled. She looked at her mother, not able to understand the expression on her face.

_That ends it,_ Marguerite told herself. _I'll never see him again_.

Why did that thought fail to provide the relief she was hoping for?


	45. Gossip Fodder

**A/N: I have time to write, yeah, kind of…but my mind had gone blank and I ran out of ideas! Fortunately, that was recently fixed, resulting in an update for you, yes you!**

**Side note: My Russian lit class is amazing! We're reading _Anna Karenina _right now, which is so sad, but beautiful (except for, uh, all the boring parts). It made this chapter easier to write…sort of. **

* * *

He was probably getting tired of waiting by now.

Even though the heat of early August beat down upon her uncovered head, Katie shivered, imagining how angry Erik would be when she finally showed up. No matter what she may be able to tell him about Marguerite—very little, as she had only glimpsed the woman several times, through the window or in the carriage as it drove off—it had still been an entire two weeks since he had sent her away with his orders and down payment. Doubtless he would be frustrated at the wait. With her other occupation, Katie could not devote her entire day to the Phantom's whims, but that was no excuse.

The only thing she could think about was the memory of the night when she and Marguerite had had too much absinthe. Erik's rage at the sight of his inebriated beloved, unable to even walk properly, had been an awesome sight. How would he treat _Katie_, a person for whom he cared nothing at all? It was enough to send another chill between her shoulder blades.

All the same, she felt petty and repulsive as she lingered next to a streetlamp in broad daylight, in one of Paris' nicer neighborhoods, a little ways down the street from the Gautiers' home. Loitering in her simple outfit, she was more than conspicuous, and drew a few mistrustful glares from the well-to-do passersby. Servants, dressed similarly to her, hurried past on their various errands, casting looks as if to say, _Let it be on your own head if your employer catches you loafing around like that, but I know _I'm_ getting my job done_.

She watched the doorway of Marguerite's house, feeling torn in half. From the past fortnight, she at least knew Marguerite's residence, which had been critical for Erik to know. Still, her heart rebelled against handing over the information to him. Somehow it didn't feel right, spying on a friend this way, a woman who had shown Katie nothing but kindness. Another part of her wanted to knock on the door, or detain Marguerite on her way out, and tell her everything. To this idea, her mind screamed an indignant refusal. If Erik were to find out, it would be suicide. An order of his—never spoken, but every bit implied—was that Marguerite never know he had employed a spy to follow her constantly. He had made a sarcastic comment about it, but Katie knew it was nothing to laugh at.

She checked her tarnished watch and groaned. It was almost time to head back to the opera house for another rehearsal with the girls. How different it was to stand at the other side of the practice rooms! She should have been more respectful of her dance instructors, and more willing to learn, when she was a hopeful, optimistic student. Already she had been tempted several times to beat a young member of the _corps du ballet _for her insolence and lack of concentration.

Perhaps, Katie thought, she could just arrange to meet Erik, and make up some information, and be paid anyway…

No. _He_ was not a man to be deceived.

Passing the back of one hand across her damp brow, she wondered what to do. There had been an unfamiliar carriage waiting outside the house for as long as she had stood there. It might be the source of something new to pass on. In the heat, both the horses and the driver looked as though they were hoping to expire permanently; surely the furnaces of Hell would not produce heat any worse than this!

Just as she was about to turn away and give up for the time being, the front door of the Gautier house opened, revealing two people in the doorway. Katie stood behind the lamppost, as though it was sufficient to conceal her from their view. Fortunately, they seemed too engaged in their own conversation to notice anything on the street.

The first to step out onto the front stoop was a young man. Katie frowned, wondering where she had seen him before. His face, while clean-shaven and kind, was hardly handsome. It was dominated by an overlarge nose, a distraction from the thin mouth, uninteresting brown eyes, and equally dull brown hair. He was speaking to a lady who stood in the doorway.

It was Marguerite!

Katie's mouth opened slowly, until her jaw almost brushed the pavement. As he spoke to her, the gentleman looked at Marguerite as a sailor looks at his beloved ship, or a farmer at his fields. It was as though she was his livelihood, his treasure, his life's purpose. Saying goodbye, he briefly brushed her shoulder with his hand, and that tiny, seemingly insignificant gesture told Katie everything she needed to know. This man was obviously besotted. From the way Marguerite bashfully smiled back, she cared very much for him. When she took a step further from the dark foyer and into the light of day, Katie gasped loudly, almost enough for them to hear.

Marguerite had put on weight since Katie had seen her last, but most of it had concentrated in one crucial location. Training the ballerinas was quickly forgotten as Katie stared in horror and wonder. She chewed on a fingernail, her imagination taking off at a frantic pace. Could it be that Marguerite was pregnant with this other man's child? Had Erik cast her out when he discovered her adultery, or had she left him on her own? Her condition was apparent, but not so very advanced. Perhaps she had fled from him without explanation, and her husband did not know the details of this sordid affair. As Katie watched, Marguerite took another step back, concealing herself in the house's darker shadows, making her less visible from the street.

This second man was not much to look at, but even Katie admitted herself to be touched by the love in his eyes, and an infectious smile that lit up his face. He had more physical beauty than Erik could boast, at any rate. Not only that, but his suit was perfectly tailored and of the highest quality, declaring him to be far above a merely modest income.

_Yes, I suppose he has enough to offer_, Katie thought. _But where have I seen him before?_

It was at the opera, most likely. Perhaps he had been a patron years ago, when she was still in the _corps_. He appeared old enough, though without much seniority over Marguerite. Quivering with the excitement her undercover work had yielded, Katie watched as the man kissed her friend's hand, lingered a few extra seconds, and turned to the waiting carriage.

Only when he had disappeared around a corner, and Marguerite had retreated back into the coolness of the house, did Katie let out a breath she did not even know she was holding back. Her mind whirled with this juicy, new gossip, and she headed back toward the opera house with a jaunty step. When the grand structure came into view, she stopped at a crosswalk, and her heart almost did the same.

_Oh, _mon dieu…_What am I going to tell Erik?_

* * *

"You must be mistaken," Marguerite told the maid. "There can't be anyone here to visit me. M Laroche is not coming back here to visit me ever again. He must want to speak to my father. Tell him to go to the _Opera Populaire_."

"But it _is_ M Laroche, _madame_, and he says he wishes to speak with _you_. He is in the parlor and says he is here on a matter of great urgency."

Despite the stern look Marguerite gave her, the maid still stared at her incredulously. She turned away and resumed brushing Solange's hair. The child was thankfully silent through this exchange, though Marguerite knew she could feel the tension in the room and was uncomfortable with the idea of seeing Henri again. Solange had been unusually quiet since that day, and had never mentioned it, though sometimes her eyes welled up with tears for what seemed to be no reason at all. With some guilt, Marguerite knew she should have explained things to Solange a little more clearly. However, when it seemed that Henri had gone the way of Erik—never to return—Marguerite thought an explanation was unwarranted.

"Tell him I shall be down when I am finished here."

The maid curtseyed and left. Mother and daughter did not speak as Marguerite finished brushing out Solange's glossy black hair. How tangled it got! She left Solange with a doll in her hand and a kiss on her cheek before going to meet her visitor. Wiping her damp palms on her skirt, she went down the staircase unhurriedly, her heart pounding.

After all that had happened, why was he here again?

Henri was standing with his back to her, looking out the window, his hands clasped behind him and holding his hat. At the sound of her soft footsteps on the carpeting, he turned to her. His color was high, though from the heat or some inner anxiety she could not tell. His smile was nervous, elusive.

"I hope this is a more prudent time to call," he said. "My last visit was at a rather unpleasant hour, apparently."

Unable to speak, Marguerite stared at him as if at a stranger who had suddenly materialized inside the parlor. She had believed he was gone forever from her life; surely no other man would have returned after the discovery of a fortnight ago. There was no reason for him to be here once more, wishing to speak with her. She had nothing to give him. Desperately her mind searched for any scrap of an idea of what he was doing here at this moment. She had to be prepared for anything. Unfortunately, what her mind found was nothing.

When she only watched him and refused to speak, Henri cleared his throat, no longer smiling.

"Marguerite, I've been thinking…"

She looked away from him, moving toward the window. "No," she whispered.

"Allow me to just say something, and I will be brief."

Clenching her eyes shut, she reached up to grasp one of the curtains. "Please don't." She didn't want to hear any more slander against Erik. She didn't want to hear anything else, even if it was true, and she certainly would not tolerate any sort of affront against her daughter.

_If he dares to insinuate anything_…_or insult my child_…_I swear to heaven, I will not be responsible for my actions!_

"That is…I mean, _she _is…your child," he said, his voice low and hesitant, as though he was still trying to grasp that very idea himself.

Her eyes were stern and challenging as she glared at him and said, "Yes. Her name is Solange. She is mine and Erik's, conceived within the boundaries of wedlock, five cellars beneath the _Opera Populaire_, and born in our house in the country, three years ago last January. She has her father's mind, but apparently not his vocal powers. She plays the piano like Mozart did at that age, and is soon to learn the violin and has been taught several languages." After a mere second's pause, she added, "Is there anything else you wish to know?"

Henri watched her, his mouth slightly opened, with the dazed look he would have had if she had reached out and slapped him in the face.

"That…That wasn't necessary," he finally said, "but…thank you."

She lifted her chin ever so slightly and said, "_De rien_."

"But I…I didn't come here today to ask for such…details about…your daughter." He cleared his throat again. "Why didn't you tell me about her before?"

Folding her arms defiantly, Marguerite turned to look out the window again. In fact, she was not even watching anything in particular, but her sight was fixed on a single speck on the glass. Irritated that he was here and asking these things, she also did not know how to answer his questions, ignorant of the answer herself.

Uncomfortable with this angry silence, Henri said, "She's a beautiful child. She looks like you, you know."

Her shoulders twitched. "I don't know," she said.

"You ought to. She's the very image of—"

"I _mean_, I don't know why I didn't tell you!" Marguerite turned toward him again as she spat the words out at him, her arms unfolding and her hands formed into fists. "I just couldn't. I didn't want to! I didn't want you to know about her. I thought I would be keeping her safe, because it seems that you know everything else about my life! When you're here, I find myself just saying things I shouldn't, things I need to keep inside, and I _promised_ myself that I wouldn't tell you about Solange! You weren't supposed to meet her _at all!_"

She flopped down on a chair, leaning forward and wrapping her arms around her middle, her eyebrows knitted together as she stared wrathfully at the floor, as though trying to burn a hole in the carpet. Henri watched her cautiously, expecting tears, but there was nothing but dry fury.

"Marguerite," he said, testing her ever so slightly, "why not? Why shouldn't I meet your little girl?"

She sighed, feeling beaten, and almost groaned at the same time. What did it matter anymore, now that all but her very last secret was out in the open?

"It has been nearly a month since I last saw Erik," she said. "I've nearly stopped hoping for him to come to his senses. But Solange hasn't stopped asking for her father, when he's coming back, when we're going home, when he's going to teach her a new piano piece." She looked up at Henri, her eyes filled with the vacancy of hopelessness. "I don't ever want her to stop asking." One hand glided over her swelling abdomen. "And I don't want this one to grow up without him, either."

Henri picked up her other hand, bending down beside her in the chair. "What if he _doesn't_ come back?"

She shook her hand. "I can't think about that."

"Don't you think you ought to? This is real, Marguerite. Don't forget what I've offered you. Celine may be coming back soon, unless she stops in Switzerland or a spa in Germany. It's my chance to get things finally sorted out."

Her lips parted a little in astonishment. "You…I thought you'd have wanted to forget that, once…once you'd seen…"

"I can't say that I am in favor of the idea, or that I'm even glad you have children. But they are a part of you, and I love you. You cherish them so much, even the one still unborn…how can I ignore that, when you are so important to me yourself?"

Marguerite looked at him wryly. "Erik is a part of me, too, Henri. Do you love him as well?"

He pressed his lips together, releasing her hand to rise to his feet. "That is a different matter entirely."

"I don't think so," she said. "Just a part you want to ignore."

"I will never ask you to forget Erik," Henri said. "I finally have reconciled myself to the fact that you never will, and that is something I cannot force or even beg of you. But if you would only come to recognize the fact that he is gone forever…" He finished in a whisper, "That's all I'd want from you."

She closed her eyes, her mind and body both aching with the different directions in which she was being pulled. He still loved her, and acknowledged the existence of her children, recognizing their importance in her life. In her heart, she knew this would not be the case if Solange had been born with her father's looks. Part of her was relieved that she no longer had to conceal her daughter's existence whenever Henri came to call. Another part of her was bothered that Henri _would _still come to call. Her infidelity to Erik was all but physical; she missed him and longed to have him back. Henri knew all that already, but if he also knew how much relief she felt when he was nearby, when he was in the room, when he spoke to her words of love and encouragement and open pleading…then, Marguerite knew she would not be able to stand up to him.

Together, she and Henri had spoken so much to each other, and yet there was still more implied. Was she right to infer that Henri was willing to play the father for Solange and the unseen child, if Marguerite would only leave behind all hope for Erik, while Henri cast off the chains binding him to his own spouse? How Henri could resolve himself to the reality that she and Erik had together created these two little beings, and yet refuse to concede that they were still legally and spiritually bound together, Marguerite could not understand. A chilling thought made itself known, and she could not ignore the truth in it.

To Henri, Erik was still a monster, an inhuman thing devoid of any rights whatsoever. He was neither bound nor protected by any law or institution, anything that spoke of civilized existence. His wife he had to divorce, and leave with a sizeable pension, but Erik could be abandoned without due cause, without an explanation, and without a notice—not being human, he therefore deserved none of these things. With all his pretty words and promises, all the hope he offered her, even the comfort Marguerite felt in his presence, Henri could not leave behind that one crippling prejudice. As long as she knew this, she could not accept his love with a clear conscience.

"I have his children," she finally said aloud. "He will never be gone from me forever."

His shoulders drooped a little, as though he had expected an answer like that and hoped for something better. Nodding, crestfallen, he bowed slightly and picked up his hat from the table where he had deposited it earlier.

"I suppose I couldn't have expected any other answer," he said. Her heart twisted with pity at the despair in his words. When he began to walk toward the foyer, preparing to leave, she jumped to her feet and followed him.

"Henri, wait," she said.

He turned and looked at her expectantly.

Even if they could never be together, and even though she still loved Erik and refused to give him up entirely…she could not watch Henri walk out of her life. He loved her, and she still needed him. "Please come back again. You have no idea what your friendship means to me."

He smiled sadly, his mouth tipping to one side. "Where else could I possibly go?" He opened the front door and stepped out.

She followed him and stood in the doorway, looking almost apologetic. "Be that as it may, I can't let _him_ go, Henri."

He shrugged slightly. "At this point, Marguerite, I don't expect you to. I will accept whatever I can from you." When she reached out her hand, he kissed it, hesitating a moment before going down the steps toward his carriage. Once it was around the corner and he was out of sight of the house, he bent his head and wiped away the tear that lingered in his eye.

Marguerite closed the door and moved to the little window beside the door, through which she watched the vehicle rattle away.

_He loves me_, she thought, _and he always has_. _What am I to do about it but accept him?_

She recalled his offhand remark that Celine would be returning from Italy soon, unless she decided to delay herself elsewhere. Well, nothing could be done about it at the present time; better to wait and see, and make decisions as new developments occurred.

Realizing what she was thinking about, she shook her head. Erik was her husband, the one she loved. She dared not think of abandoning him the way he had done to her. Her children would grow up knowing exactly who their father was…even if the new child never saw him, and Solange, never again.

Marguerite turned around and leaned against the heavy front door. When she lifted her pensive eyes from the floor, she came face-to-face with her mother's livid frown.

"You have toed the line until now," Isabelle said, "but I will not have you crossing it under this roof."

Marguerite colored, not bothering to ask what her mother was implying. She knew it very well. "I have done nothing wrong," she said.

"Not yet," her mother said, pointing a finger at her. "But if you and Henri Laroche continue like this…it is only a matter of time. Even a simpleton could guess the inevitable."

"I can't help that he loves me, Mama," Marguerite said, stepping away from the front door and toward the staircase. In a whisper, she added, "Or that Erik no longer does."

"I don't care if infidelity is the upper class vogue," her mother hissed, "you will _not _conduct an affair right under my nose!"

"I have done nothing of the sort!" Marguerite snapped. "I can't help that he loves me more than his own wife. I can't help it that Erik has left me with nothing but memories and two children! I can't help it that I'm consumed with loneliness and wish that it was Erik sitting in that parlor with me instead of Henri. If I could make things different, Mama, believe me, I would. But I can't, so what else am I supposed to do? Please tell me, I'll take any suggestions!"

Not bothering to wait for a reply, she hurried up the stairs, fanning her face and hoping the color would fade before Solange saw her again.

"My poor darling," Isabelle whispered. "He seemed so genteel when I met him, if a bit…eccentric."

* * *

**A/N: This is probably not going to make any people happy—especially since Erik isn't really in it, but he'll be back in the next one. Too bad…I'm enjoying writing it way too much! Now I'm off to study for a history exam…**


	46. When All Is Lost

Slipping effortlessly into their usual habits of gossip and giggling, the _corps du ballet_ filed out of the practice room. Not one of the girls so much as cast a meager glance upward. If she had, she might have caught a glimpse of white far above her head, the mask of the Opera Ghost, who was watching it all. It would have taken a strong set of eyes already eager to spy something in the darkness, for he pressed himself against the shadows, silent and unmoving.

It was not a little ballet rat he was watching for, but one of their instructors. For more than a fortnight, he had been waiting for whatever news Katie had managed to pick up. With some particle of shame, Erik remembered when he had forced Marguerite through those very same hoops. Granted, it would be more difficult for the dancer; even if Marguerite was still in Paris, she would not be in any gossip columns. At least, not if she had any decency at all, and deep in his heart, Erik hoped he could still rely on her integrity.

But for two weeks, he had watched Katie come and go from the opera house and its dormitories. He had slunk back into the depth of the theater's gloom countless times, with a weakening hope that _this _time, _this _stroke of midnight, she would be at the rooftop to bring him what he wanted. With every passing day, his anger and his impatience grew until he could no longer manage it. As the last of the children's prattle faded down the corridor, Erik fingered the rope concealed in the folds of his cape. He would not be waiting much longer.

"You'll have to remind her again not to go so quickly through the preparatory exercises," Mme Luvier was saying, stepping out into the hall, followed closely by Katie. "She'll end up spraining something, and the new season is too close for _that _to happen."

"Yes, _madame_," Katie said in her halting, heavily accented French. "I'll be sure to keep an eye on her. I think she has some real talent. It would be a shame for her to lose any opportunities this season."

"Talent," Luvier said, pronouncing the word with disgust. "All the talent in the world is useless without discipline. You keep that in mind." Her voice was growing distant as she went the same route as the ballerinas. "Goodnight, Katie."

Katie wished her a good evening and then hesitated in front of the practice room. Twice she took a few steps in the same direction as everyone else, and twice she stopped again, looking fretful and conflicted. Finally, she started off in the opposite direction, her shoulders twitching and her steps clumsier than usual. It was only a moment before the infamous lasso, the instrument of so many deaths, had dropped down and caught under her chin.

She gagged as it tightened around her throat, pulling her upward until she was barely balancing on her toes. As she grasped at the rope with fumbling hands, panicking to try to loosen it, Erik slipped down to her level and stood before her. Unable to speak, she stared at him with incredulous terror. She tilted her chin further upward to fight for one last breath, and then the rope fell. Nearly passing out, Katie collapsed to her knees, but Erik grabbed the lasso and dragged her back up to her feet before loosening its hold around her windpipe.

"_Mon dieu!_" the girl said between drags of air.

As she rubbed her neck, Erik came close and towered over her. "Where have you been? You were supposed to bring me news!"

After one more cough, she said, "Rehearsals ran late tonight. I was going to fetch my cloak and then meet you on the rooftop at quarter to midnight, as you told me to…_monsieur_." Adding the title for good measure, she turned her face away briefly to wipe a tear from her eye.

"Liar!" he hissed.

"No, I'm not!" She took a step back. "I might as well not tell you if you're just going to call me a liar and not believe me!" He had only to take that step toward her again, bringing his hand threateningly to his mask, before she retracted her words. She almost would have preferred to die in the lasso than have to see his disfigurement. "She's at her parents' house," Katie explained. "She's still in Paris."

Erik sighed, relieved. Well, there was one mystery solved. The thought of going there to retrieve her fluttered through his mind, but he pushed it away. Mme Giry had told him to get her back, but did she understand his situation? No, there was not a chance she could fully comprehend his reasons, and what he was putting himself through for Marguerite! "Go on," he told Katie.

She grimaced and bit her lip nervously. "Well, she seemed…a bit fat…in the stomach. You know…as though she's pregnant."

"Yes, I _know_ about all that," he snapped, rolling his eyes.

"Oh!" Her eyes brightened and the brows shot up. She, too, looked relieved, though for reasons Erik could not conceive of at the moment. "So the child _is _yours."

He frowned still more deeply. "Of course the child is mine. Why wouldn't it be?"

Katie's heart stopped inside of her, and she desperately wished she had followed the _corps_ back to the girls' dormitories. He hadn't meant to kill her a few minutes ago, but he surely would very soon. "No…no reason, _monsieur_…" she murmured.

"What could make you think otherwise?" he asked, his silky voice sounding more and more dangerous.

"Nothing!" Katie tried to move away from him. When she turned her back on him to flee, he reached out and snatched at her hair with all the speed of a predator.

"You little witch," he said, gripping the tight chignon at the back of her head. He towed her backwards into a dark, vacant room before finally releasing her with a shove. "You were keeping something from me—_what is it?_"

Katie moaned in pain, rubbing the back of her head, her hair now loose and falling around her face. "I don't know of anything for sure."

"Then what made you say that?" Erik persisted.

"I don't want to do this anymore," she said. "You don't have to pay me for what I've already told you, but please, _monsieur_, I don't want to do this anymore!"

He brandished the lasso, and she went white. "You haven't told me everything yet," he said, "and unless you do, you'll be half-eaten by rats in this very room before anyone finds your corpse!"

"_Mon dieu_," she gasped again. "I'm not…I'm not even sure." She stood there, shaking so badly that Erik was surprised she still managed to stay on her feet. He knew he had to check himself—sending her into mad hysterics would not get him what he wanted—but the ideas, the suspicions she had unwittingly fed him, had removed the last speck of mercy and reason he could drum up within himself.

"For the last time, _what makes you even suspect that she would have a child by anyone else?_"

At last, Katie took a deep breath, suspecting it would be her last, and said quickly, "A young man called on her while I watched her house last time."

Erik froze. Somehow, hearing the words from her mouth was vastly different from hearing them in his head. He lowered the lasso, that shattering statement still echoing in his head. It was exactly as Mme Giry had suggested. It was exactly what he had feared would happen, though he had never acknowledged that fear within himself. Something was roaring in his ears, and he swallowed and forced himself to ask another question.

"Did she seem…happy? Glad to see him?"

Hesitating just a bit, Katie whispered, "Yes, _monsieur_."

He would not ask her what this man looked like, not wanting that particular suspicion to be confirmed. Besides, he already knew—Henri. It couldn't be anyone else. She had probably summoned him to her presence the moment she knew she was free. That bastard was doubtless congratulating himself on his good fortune at the monster's expense.

Katie was staring at him as though she could not quite believe he really existed. It was, indeed, quite an incredible situation. Erik looked at her without seeing her, his mind too focused on the thousands of fragmented thoughts swirling in his head, trying desperately to make sense of something. Finally, feeling that he was about to lose control entirely, he once again recognized the young woman standing in front of him, her back to the wall.

"Get out of here," he said.

She obeyed, but when she hesitated at the door, glancing at him doubtfully, he thundered, "Get out, you fool, or I can't be responsible for what I do to you!"

It was enough. With all the grace and speed of her profession, Katie darted from the room and fled down the dark hallway for her very life, never slowing until she was safely back in her own chambers, with the door shut and locked securely behind her. Panting, she slid a chair across the floor as well, tucking it under the doorknob. She climbed into her bed, shivering, without even undressing, and pulled the covers above her head—something she had not done since she was a child—remaining that way for hours before finally dropping off to sleep.

Erik, however, stayed in the empty room, pacing, shaking and breathing more and more rapidly until his head spun and he could barely see straight. A part of himself—a tiny fragment that could still think rationally—knew what he had claimed he wanted had been realized. Marguerite had found someone else, someone who made her happy, someone _human_. Unfortunately, a single fragment was not quite sufficient to drown out the rest of his madness.

"How could she," he growled, "that little harlot—and right under her parents' roof! Is there no honest woman in the world?"

For the first time in his life, he desperately yearned to fasten his fingers around her neck and break it. Somehow he managed to keep himself calm as he hurried back to his lair as quickly as he could. If he had met any other living thing at this hour, he would have killed it without a second thought—rat catcher, charwoman, ballerina, or patron.

Back in his house, all restraint was gone. In a matter of minutes, every work of art, every scrap of paper, and every piece of furniture was in pieces all over the floor, or sinking to the bottom of the lake. He nearly destroyed the pipe organ as he pounded on it, creating incoherent chords and nonsensical phrases that barely served as a sufficient channel for his rage. The mirrors had already been broken, but he smashed them still more, leaving not a scrap of glass clinging to the frames. Storming into the Louis-Philippe room, he managed to break one of the wardrobe doors before wreaking havoc on the contents. The dresses and feminine articles—reminders of his losses, again and again—were more a fuel than a catharsis, and when he was finished tearing the last piece of lace and silk, he turned against the bed's mattress. Only then was he exhausted enough to cease his destruction.

Finally he collapsed, every muscle aching, and his ears ringing with the sounds of his own insanity. He wept then, pressed down by the weight of the ruin he had brought to himself. If he could not have seen it on his own, he would never believe he had so completely released his self-control and lost the last scrap of his humanity. He was worn out and unable to distract himself, and so his mind assaulted him full force.

_It was bound to happen_. _This is what you wanted, isn't it?_

_No, I never wanted her to find someone else_. _I just wanted her to be happy_…_without me_.

_Liar_. _Don't try to deny it, you know you are_. _And anyway, it's done now_. _You got what you wanted—by all accounts, she's perfectly happy with her life_. _You've done her a great favor, just as you've predicted_.

_This isn't what I thought it would be_.

_It is as it should be—She is up there and happy, with that wealthy young man, and you're down here, surrounded by rubbish, and your isolation is eating away at your guts_. _Sounds dreadfully familiar, does it not? You managed to put it off for a few years, but you're finally back where you belong_.

_Let me go,_ Erik pleaded to no one in particular, but whatever being was nesting in his brain. _I just want to rest_. _Give me a chance to rest_.

_By all means_. _Hopefully you will dream about her, because that is as close as you'll ever be to your wife again_.

At last he fell asleep, and he did indeed dream of her. He was standing in a room lit with only a fireplace, and saw Marguerite and Henri entwined in the light of the flames. She looked thin and wan, as she had done before they moved to the country. It was Henri who noticed Erik first. When Marguerite saw him too, she thanked him for setting her free. He could not hear her voice, but he knew she said it.

Erik tried to move, but could not, and he was forced to witness the scene until it faded into blackness, changing into a collection of confusing images and shadows he did not recognize.

* * *

When Erik did wake up, his anger had cooled, transformed into a desolation more poisonous than his rage. It was a long time before he was able to leave the room. It might have been hours, or days, he was not sure. Though he once prided himself on his insistence on keeping track of the calendar, it no longer mattered. Every passing minute meant a minute closer to his death; that was all that waited for him, and that was all he cared to know.

Sitting up, he stared in bewilderment at the ravaged bedroom. Was it actually possible he had done all this himself, in such a short amount of time? He was hesitant to believe it, until he stood up and felt the ache in his muscles. Yes, he had exerted himself beyond his usual activity last night. Even his fingers ached. There were a few splinters embedded into the skin, from damaging the wardrobe and his desk. What cut into him the most, however, was the sight of those beautiful clothes, purchased for Christine and once worn by Marguerite, turned into rags and strewn across the floor with the rest of the debris. He bent down and picked up a strip of emerald green satin. His wrath must have affected his memory, too, for he could barely recall the previous night in all its horror.

Katie came to mind, and with some panic, he tried to remember if he had killed her. Rushing to the main room, he saw only more of the same kind of damage. There was no body, no blood, nothing to suggest he had murdered anyone last night. Yes, as he thought of it, he did remember telling her to leave. There was no reason to doubt her compliance. For some reason, the thought of apologizing to her crossed his mind, but he ignored it. She already knew he was vulnerable where Marguerite was concerned; there was no need to show further weakness.

Instead, he tried to clean up the aftermath from before. Once he had put every scrap of rubble into an enormous pile, there was almost nothing left but the pipe organ. Somehow he had been sensible enough to preserve his gondola. Needing an escape, he climbed into it and set off across the lake, floating more than steering it, letting it wander wherever the current would take him. Naturally, in the stillness of the subterranean lake, his thoughts again wandered to Marguerite.

Killing Henri would not be enough, and it certainly would not bring her back to him. If she did love this man, it would probably do the opposite. How convenient that he should be thinking so sensibly now! Erik almost surprised himself with his rationality. Had he been this clear-headed with Christine, he might have found himself in quite different circumstances this very day. But merely considering such a thing was disgraceful. It was his thinking of Christine, after all, that had brought him to his current situation. Perhaps dwelling upon her had summoned her into being that day in front of Mme Giry's apartment. He shuddered to think of how it all began.

_I can't possibly say that it's undeserved_, he thought. _If I were Marguerite, I wouldn't come back, either_.

"But I want her back," he murmured to himself. The stone walls repeated his words, mocking him.

He sat there, floating across the lake, wrapped in the shroud of the damp chill and his own cold thoughts. After several hours, he was seized with an inexplicable sensation of restlessness, and a curiosity to witness the goings-on of the stage. It, too, would bring back painful memories, but it was likely to be better than being down here. Since leaving Marguerite, he had actually spent little time anywhere in the theater but his house.

He passed a window on his way up through the passages and staircases that let in enough daylight to make Erik blink and squint until his eyes adjusted. The window faced west, but he could not see the sun. Perhaps it was late morning? It made him wonder if it was still the day after he had last met with Katie, or two days. Maybe a cast-off newspaper somewhere would give him a hint.

Finally, he reached Box Five, where he saw that rehearsals were underway for the premiere of the new season. Up here, he could remain hidden and watch the stage hands, maids, and seamstresses running about in anxious preparation. The half-completed costumes and props were unlike anything even Erik had seen in the theater before; apparently the powers that be wanted to welcome in the new season with a _bang_ of the most lavish kind. The performers were trickling back from a recess, but the orchestra pit remained empty the entire time Erik was there. The set, though an exquisite creation, made him shiver violently.

Why did he think he would feel better up here? The events of last night, or whenever they had occurred, had made him fail to remember something else, too. Watching everyone practice now brought it all back to him. Foregoing the new Verdi, the managers had decided to start instead with a more extravagant rendering of a tried-and-true production—_Faust_.

Though he had mainly stayed away from the busier sections of the theater, except on business involving Katie, Erik _had_ stumbled across a rehearsal involving one of Margarita's arias. Thinking it was an audition, he had given it little consideration, but he knew better now. He recognized the soprano chosen to sing the role, and had to admit that she was superb. Not quite as exquisite as Christine's voice once Erik had become its master, but she had talent nonetheless.

Turning away in despair, his eyes wandered to the shelf where Mme Giry used to leave their correspondence, and where he had left occasional gifts for her loyal service. It had been empty for years, but to his surprise, he saw a small, white envelope lying there now. It was not dusty, so it must have been placed there very recently.

The paper felt thin and cheap when he reached up to take it in his hand. "For O.G." was written on it, with feminine lettering that he thought he recognized. When he opened the letter inside, there was only one line, written in that same script. He stared at it in disbelief, completely still, feeling as though someone had just shot him in the chest. Had the _Opera Populaire_ come crashing down that very moment, he would not have moved, but fallen stiffly, his eyes still fixed on the four words he never wished to be written by that hand, words he would have never wanted to read in all his life:

_My mother is dead_.

* * *

**A/N: FYI, instead of "Marguerite," I'm using the name "Margarita" when referring to the character in _Faust_, just so there's no confusion.**


	47. Knowing We Must Say Goodbye

**A/N: I'm back! Belated Merry Christmases and Happy New Years to all of you. I am honestly so sorry that this has taken me forever to write, particularly after a semi-cliffhanger. I had the most horrendous semester at school, and then a hectic Christmas break, and this next semester seems like it will be crazy, as well. I will try to update when I can, but I don't see it happening very frequently. I do want to finish this story before I graduate, which is entirely conceivable, thank goodness.**

**I hope against hope that there are people out there who still want to continue reading this story, even after such a long sabbatical. I'm sorry if I let anyone down, but my life would simply not allow for writing this. Anyway, here you are! Forgive me for any little errors and typos there may still be in this chapter---I'm a little out of practice, and I wanted to get this posted ASAP.  
**

* * *

Christine was inconsolable. Kneeling by the bed, she grasped her surrogate mother's cold hand as if that might keep a little life in her. Hot tears soaked into the blanket, but she would not lift her face. Meg and Raoul glanced at each other helplessly once more before turning back to Christine. Her own face wet, Meg placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and shook it. 

"Christine, it…it's over. Don't cry…don't cry like that, please. Come on up, Christine." After only a few moments, her voice became too choked and hoarse to be of any use.

"Wha—what will I do—without you?" Christine wailed in-between sobs. Ignorant of what to do in this particular situation, Raoul stood a step behind her, swallowing his own tight throat to keep back un-masculine tears.

"_Pourquoi? Mon dieu, Pourquoi?_" She twitched away from Meg's touch and stood up, colliding with her husband when she took a step back. He turned her around to face him. Hardly knowing where she was, she threw her arms around his torso and wept into his waistcoat.

"Christine, darling," Raoul whispered, stroking her hair, "I know…I know you loved her. She's better off where she is now, though. She loved you, too, very much…" He shifted his gaze to Meg, who was brushing back the stray locks of hair from her mother's bloodless face. She cleared her throat and stepped back to approach the couple nervously.

"You must leave this place," she whispered in one of Raoul's ears while Christine cried into the other. "I sent _him _word of her passing. You cannot be here when he comes. He may appear at any moment, and one death in this room is more than enough."

Raoul's eyes glistened with indignation. "I cannot leave you behind to be slaughtered by that madman!"

Meg shook her head. "He won't hurt me. Sister Frevisse is here, too, and Erik's the one who paid for her to be here at all. He may be angry with _her _for letting a patient…well…" She took a breath and could say no more. "He won't do anything, I'm…I'm sure."

Raoul frowned, looking as though he were about to push Christine aside and pursue Erik himself. He found himself somehow feeling sorrier for Meg than his own wife, and certainly did not believe her feeble assurance that Erik would prove harmless. Though younger than Christine, Meg was making every attempt to be strong and watch out for her closest friend, even as she dealt with the loss of her mother. "We should have asked the priest to stay longer," Raoul said, partly to himself.

"He'll be back, but not until later. What could he do? Perform an exorcism on Erik? I doubt that would make much of a difference." Meg looked at her mother's body again. "Maybe he'll be prostrate with grief and unable to do anything at all."

"_Can_ he mourn?" Raoul mused aloud as Christine's weeping began to subside, and she raised her head.

"Erik…is coming?"

With another nervous glance at Raoul, Meg reached out to gently touch one of the dark curls that fell across Christine's shoulder. "I'm afraid so, _mon amie_, but don't worry—you will get out of here and Raoul will take you home before he arrives."

"I want to see him."

Meg's hand froze on Christine's shoulder. Raoul stared, dumbfounded, at the woman in his arms as though she was a lunatic. Indeed, judging from her expression, almost anyone would think she was insane. Her tears dried up, leaving only the streaks on her face, reddened eyes, and a brooding frown. Her grip on Raoul's lapels loosened, and her gaze shifted past him to something beyond the material world. It was Meg who gripped her shoulder a little tighter and gave it a shake.

"Christine, you _know _that would be a foolish idea." She looked ready to burst into her own symphony of cries herself, her voice trembling ominously and a fresh set of tears poised at the corners of her eyes. "But even so, I can't blame you…I've been caring for my mother for several months now, and I've seen…the end coming and…had more time to reconcile myself to it. You have not had that opportunity." At last she had to stop to wipe her eyes, and continued. "You've always been my sister. She loved you like her own daughter, and I never understood her strange relationship with Erik, but…she somehow loved him, too. I can't imagine why you would want to speak to _him _at this time, especially with your husband here for you, and…and Christine, no one knows what you're feeling more than I."

Christine was not looking at Meg, but her eyes had lost their vacantly ethereal quality. She turned and stared at her friend, full of a thousand questions.

Biting her lip to beat back the tears, Meg nodded knowingly. "Take her home, Raoul." Her chest tightened with dread. "_Now_." When he hesitated, still holding Christine, she pushed him and stepped back. "Please," she said. "There isn't a moment to lose!" She turned to Christine. "I will send you word when she's to be…when they…before the burial."

Christine's senses seemed to return, and she nodded at Meg as she allowed Raoul to lead her out of the room and out of the apartment. The nurse came back to finish tending to Mme Giry's body, and Meg stood by the window, watching over Raoul and Christine as they climbed into their waiting carriage. Just as Raoul had helped his wife step up into the vehicle, a cab pulled up behind them. Though it disclosed no clues about its passenger's identity, Meg felt that dread increase. "Get in," she whispered, as though Raoul could hear her. "Get in, and _go home!_"

Raoul stayed where he was, staring at the newcomer, apparently waiting for something. Fortunately, Christine was not in view or looking out the carriage window when Erik stepped down from the hansom. The hood of his cloak was pulled over his head despite the summer sun beating down upon the city. She could not glimpse any part of his face, or even his mask, but Meg knew it had to be Erik, not only by the way he wore his cloak, but the way he moved as he left the carriage. There was no mistaking his feline gait, and the unease between the two men was palpable even behind a second-floor window.

Sister Frevisse asked a question, but Meg's ears could not hear while her eyes were concentrating so hard. She did not notice how tightly her muscles were tensed, waiting for some form of violence to break out in the street. Even if it did, what could she do about it? She was a slender woman, and too far away to prevent any casualties to either party. Still, she waited.

While it had been a few seconds, by the time Erik turned away and entered the apartment building an hour seemed to have passed. Meg gasped and fled from the window as Raoul at last followed his wife and the de Chagny carriage rolled away.

She was still too slow for Erik, who burst through the door just as she was about to open it for him, almost slamming it into her face. She expected no apology, and he did not make one. The conflicting, ever-shifting emotions on his face made it clear that his mind had no room for common courtesies at the moment. He paused and took one brief glance at Meg—tousled hair, reddened, shadowed eyes, a face streaked with dust and tears, and a crumpled dress worn three days in a row—before going into the next room.

"Erik, wait—" Meg tried to say, but it was useless. She followed him into the bedroom, and saw what she had more or less expected.

Silent, completely still, Erik stood beside the bed, staring down at it as though he did not recognize the woman who had cared for him so deeply—so inexplicably. Meg's heart could not keep from being a little moved when she watched him. When he began to tremble, his hands turning into fists, all her fear came back. Finally aware she was in the room, he turned to her with burning anger. His words were spoken quietly, but the harshness of his voice tore at Meg's ears.

"How could this have happened?"

Though her heart pounded, Meg frowned in confusion. "Erik…she was ill."

Before she could say anything else, he vented his wrath on Sister Frevisse, still attending to things in the same room. "You! You let her die!"

The older woman did not seem as fearful as Meg, but she did not know the man's history quite so well. "_Monsieur_," she said, squaring her shoulders, "I did everything I could for her. She was aged, and her condition was already—"

"I don't want to hear your excuses! I hired you to _improve _her condition, and…and…_damn you!_" Turning his back on both of them, Erik pressed his hands against his head, as though trying to keep his thoughts from leaving his mind. Whirling around again, he said, "Leave me! You've done your damage, now _get out!_"

"Erik," Meg ventured to say, "I still need her…just a little while longer."

"You as well! Get out of this room."

Glancing at Sister Frevisse, Meg sighed and decided that perhaps it would be best to comply and allow him to be alone with her mother one last time. Once outside the room, the nurse began packing her things, looking less than pleased with the current circumstances.

"Wait," Meg said. "Sister Frevisse, I need you still. I don't know what…I've never had to…to tend a…" Unable to continue, she sighed helplessly.

"I will send you assistance from the hospital when I go back," the nurse said, "but it is obvious that he has released me from my duties here. I would rather make use of my strength where it will be needed or appreciated, and this is no longer my place."

"No… Sister Frevisse…I know he's a difficult man—I indeed know that very well, more than you do. Please let me have a little more of your time." An impatient glare from the nurse told Meg that it would take a miracle to change the older woman's mind, and she was tired of arguing. "As you wish, then." She waved one hand in a weakly dismissive gesture. "You are dismissed—God be with you."

Perhaps the danger behind Erik's grief and anger was not lost on her, or perhaps she was moved to pity the young woman. Whatever the case, Sister Frevisse set down her bag. "I will remain as long as M. du Fleuve does."

They sat and fidgeted in silence, remaining, for the most part, unaware of how much time passed before Erik finally emerged from the room. Meg stood. She expected another outburst, and had used the waiting time to prepare for it. But instead, Erik moved slowly toward her, and when he spoke, his tone was low and resigned.

"To a great lady I have paid all my final respects," he said. "Although I would prefer to attend, I would not wish to defile the honor of her funeral with my presence. I know she will understand."

Meg stared at him dubiously, her blue eyes daring him to make a move against her. After all those years of using her mother, she could hardly bring herself to believe that he was there for purely compassionate purposes.

"Here," Erik continued, reaching into his pocket. Meg took a step back before he removed his hand again, holding out several large bills. "As homage to her, and for your own future."

"No," she whispered, astonished, "I can't accept it."

"You needn't think of it as charity," Erik said, only slightly annoyed. "I see you have just as much pride as your mother did. Now, take it."

"You can't buy me the way you bought her!" Meg finally snapped. "I will not be bribed, especially not by a murderer and a thief…among other things, I might add."

Erik glanced at Sister Frevisse, who cleared her throat and moved a little further away and pretended to search for something in her bag. "So that is still your opinion of me," he said. "After all this time, I'm nothing more than that."

"Haven't you always been? Is there any alternative?"

Erik sneered. "You know, Meg Giry, I think I prefer the fearful, quivering child who used to tell stories about me to the other ballet rats."

"Little Meg Giry has grown up, _monsieur_."

Tucking the money back into his pocket, he said, "Not enough, it seems. Your mother never saw fit to instill her daughter with the proper courtesy and respect for the Opera Ghost."

"You deserve neither, especially from me. You fed my childhood nightmares, and my mother, God rest her soul, refused to fully see you for what you were! _I_ will not be the slave that she was. _I_ will not bow and scrape to win your favor, I don't care _what _you do to me."

"_Slave?_" The uncovered portion of his face began to fill with color, and he took several steps closer. "Slave? Did I not pay her? Did I not make her errands as simple as possible? Deliver a few notes, defend my salary…Oh, yes, I demanded a great deal from her, didn't I! You must think that I commanded her devotion, _forced_ her constant obedience. Who do you have to thank for your success in the _corps du ballet_? By whose compensation did you and your widowed mother live so comfortably throughout your childhood, able to continue your artistic studies and gain the prestige you seemed to enjoy a great deal?

"What a little fool you were, and a fool you are still! Yes, I have committed what you may call _crimes _in my life, but what harm have I done to you or your mother? She served me out of fear at first, of course. There wasn't a soul in the theater that didn't jump at a footstep or tremble in a mysterious breeze, thinking it was _le fantôme_, at some time or another. But when she saw who I was—quite by accident—she began to carry on because of pity, seeing I had no intent to bring ill against her. As we grew comfortable with each other, she served because she wished to, because, for some insane reason I cannot fathom, she _cared_." He paused, and then said, "After all of that, who could have guessed that her daughter would come to hate me so much?"

By the time he was finished, he was trembling intensely. Meg had sunk into a chair and covered her face with her hands, unwilling to hear more. Sister Frevisse had left the flat, unnoticed by either of them.

"My mother is gone, _monsieur_," Meg said. "If you had anything to do with my success as a dancer, then you have my gratitude. But I want you to go now. If you never came back, I think…I think that would be best for both of us."

Erik narrowed his eyes, and Meg's heart flipped over.

"Surely the Vicomte and Vicomtess did not receive such a discourteous farewell when _they _departed."

He had seen Raoul, and there was no use in denying that they had been there. "Christine is my friend, and my sister. If I must beg in order for you to leave them alone, I will do it."

Erik shook his head. "As gratifying as that would be to witness, I'm afraid I can't let you do that. Rest assured, I have no intention of pursuing them. I can only imagine how fiercely that _boy _would want to protect her. You might recall that I have a wife of my own now."

"Do you?" The way Meg raised her eyebrows doubtfully reminded Erik strongly of her mother. "Do you still?" The physical similarity between the two women was probably all that held back Erik's hand. Even so, he stepped closer to Meg, his hands twitching.

"You forget, little _mademoiselle_," he said calmly, "that we two are the only living souls in this flat. If you do not try harder to restrain that venomous tongue of yours, I doubt I will be able to restrain these hands from choking the life out of you. I made Antoinette no deathbed promises to look after her spawn, and so I owe you nothing. No doubt you will miss your mother, but I have a feeling you were not planning to join her quite so soon."

Without turning her back to Erik, Meg slowly made her way to the front door. Opening it, she said, "You have made yourself perfectly clear, M Erik. Thank you for your contributions to our lives, and may the good fortune of your own continue." Judging by the final glare he shot her way, her biting sarcasm had not been lost on him, although she had not expected it to be.

As soon as he was gone, Meg sank to the floor, her back to the closed door, and released all the tears that she had not yet allowed herself to shed.

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	48. A Troubled Confession

**A/N: Hello, everyone! I really am ashamed of myself that I last updated this story in January. Again, **_**I have an ending in mind**_**, and **_**it WILL be finished**_**. I just want to say that 1) This past semester was the worst one I have ever experienced (i.e., busy, with no time to write), and I know that I said in my last update that it was a horrible semester, but this one was worse! 2) I am now a college graduate and have to deal with even **_**more **_**real life (and finding a job), and 3) My writing time is now also occupied by a real, live novel that I'm working on. Basically, all you need to know is that **_**hopefully**_** my updates will come a little more often now that school is over, but however long it takes, I **_**will **_**finish this story.**

**And just so you know, the novel I'm working on has nothing to do with **_**Phantom of the Opera**_**, though it **_**is **_**a historical fiction. I'll probably keep writing my fanfic(s) as a means of taking a break from it. OK, not like you're reading this anymore…on with the show!**

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"He did what?"

Katie grimaced, knowing it was disbelief that caused her friend to ask again. Marguerite really had heard every word she said a moment ago.

"I'm so sorry, Marguerite. I should have told you the very next hour. You know he's always terrified me, and I had no choice. At least, I had not thought I did at the time. Then it seemed so wrong, what I was doing, so much worse than it had at first."

She stopped talking as Marguerite looked back at her, that steely gray gaze shaming Katie into silence. When she spoke, her voice took on an icy tone that rivaled Erik's. Katie had never heard Marguerite speak that way before, nor had she gathered such a mood from any of her letters.

"Yes, Katie, you should have come to me sooner. You ought to have let me know he'd asked you to spy on me that very first day you came to do it. Now he thinks that I'm unfaithful, that I've turned to another man, just as he planned all along. All this time, I have been waiting for him to break and finally come to me. I have been wondering how long it would take him to realize how wrong he was, wondering if there was something else I could do in the meantime. And here you are, telling me you've given him false proof that his plan worked!"

Humiliated, Katie lowered her face and covered it with shaking hands. "I'm so sorry," she repeated, "but I thought he'd kill me if I told you. I'm still afraid he will. I cannot help it—I cannot overcome my fear of him."

Not fifteen minutes ago, Marguerite had stood in shock as the maid led her friend Katie into the parlor. At first, Marguerite had been overwhelmed with gladness at seeing her again after such a long time, but then she saw the younger woman's face. She had not been sleeping or eating properly, and Marguerite knew that whatever Katie had to say, they would not be joyful tidings. The two women exchanged initial greetings and hurried embraces. Then a trembling Katie revealed everything that had been happening with her and Erik for the past several weeks. Marguerite could not understand how it was possible. Sinking into a chair, she felt betrayed. Both Erik and Katie were working against her somehow, unwittingly or not, and nothing was coming out of it!

Marguerite pressed her mouth into a fine line and folded her hands in her lap. She had never felt this angry at any other friend before—especially Katie, who had not seemed to possess even the capacity to do something so deceitful and foolish. Something inside Marguerite warned her that it would be better to be easy on the younger woman, but she refused to listen.

"Indeed," Marguerite said, referring to Katie's fear of murder at Erik's hands, "it is entirely possible."

The young dancer's head snapped back up, her expression one of unadulterated terror. Obviously, she had expected some kind of reassurance that the thing she feared would never really come to pass. Marguerite refused to give it to her; her blood still ran as hot as the city's thick summer air.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Katie whispered, wanting to make things right somehow.

"You can be careful," Marguerite said. She saw the confusion on Katie's face, and sighed, regaining a little of her patience. "Several years ago, I was in the exact same situation you find yourself in now."

Katie blinked. "Are you serious—were you really?"

Marguerite nodded. "Although I was not exactlypaid for my work, Erik blackmailed me into spying on Christine de Chagny for him. As ridiculous as it sounded then, and…does now…I came to care for him, and even love him." When she saw how Katie's expression had changed from astonishment to disgust and then to fear again, she softened further and laughed out loud. "Judging by the look on your face, there is little risk of that happening with you."

"Oh, Marguerite, I couldn't think of it! Why, after Rupert…" She stopped herself and looked down, biting her lip. Seeing her pain, Marguerite felt miserable for being so harsh and angry. At last Katie spoke again, "I always think that I've gotten used to it, and then he'll come to mind for some reason, and it still hurts…so badly. I believe I shall always miss him."

Looking up again, she said, "I cannot imagine what you must feel—is it that same kind of loss? And yet your husband is still alive, and refuses to see you. But if he believes you must move on and be with someone else—if he thinks he did the best thing for you—then why did he get so angry when I told him I saw you with another gentleman? Why does he want me to spy on you at all?"

Closing her eyes, Marguerite shook her head. "Because he is _Erik_."

How could she make Katie understand anything about him? The dancer knew him as the Opera Ghost, and she knew he was capable of extreme brutality. She probably did not know the extent of Erik's twisted imagination, or of his tyrannical genius. Marguerite had lived with him long enough to make sense out of nonsensical things, simply because they came from Erik. With him, the illogical became sound, and the impossible was commonplace. Marguerite did not know how to tell her friend of his passions and his motivations, the depths to which his force could plunge, and yet his profound capacity for love and loyalty. What she _could_ tell Katie was any one of the cruel things he had done—oh yes, _those_ she would accept without question.

But if Marguerite tried to tell her friend of how much he hurt inside, it would be inconceivable. She could not tell Katie how, even though Erik had held her love for years, he was never secure in it, for life had always taught him otherwise. She would never see that he was capable of something good and beautiful, if only he was given incentive and direction. How could Katie comprehend the contradiction between Erik's raging arrogance and the crippling insecurity that lingered just below the surface? Both those things had kept him away from Marguerite—while he still refused to fully release her, hiring a spy so he could pretend he didn't care.

"He needs me," she added. She was always astonished at how humbling that realization was. How many women would have gloated and rejoiced over possessing any kind of power over their husbands? Instead, Marguerite felt pained. How had she failed him in his need of her? Was she failing him still?

"But…why do you not go to him yourself?" Katie's simplicity of thinking, almost childlike, was touching, but not always practical.

Marguerite indicated her swollen stomach. "Besides this? I have tried, Katie. I tried to go to him and convince him to forget what had happened, that I would forgive him for everything—if he would not only apologize, but also forgive _himself_ and let the past stay in the past. He would not do it. He is so stubborn—more so than I—but I am determined to wait. If he will not come to realize it himself, then I cannot persuade him, and there is nothing more I can do."

"Perhaps I could tell him for you…?" Katie ventured to say, timidly.

Marguerite's eyebrows twitched, indicating her skepticism. "And let him know you had spoken to me and told me all about the agreement between you two?"

"I know—I suppose that would not do." After more embarrassed silence, she said, "May I ask who the gentleman was?"

For a moment, the chill crept back into Marguerite's voice. "A friend."

"Nothing more?"

"He would wish differently," Marguerite confessed, "but there is nothing more between us."

She was not telling the entire truth, she knew, but there was no point in involving Katie any further. There was especially no reason to give her anything she could reveal to Erik, if pressured enough to do so. Marguerite herself was no more certain how she felt about Henri than she had been the last time he had called on her. She loved Erik—that much was concrete, unalterable. Even so, she possessed feelings toward Henri that, she confessed to herself, were beyond improper for a married woman. If a scandal had somehow arisen in Paris' grapevine to be passed around by the quickest mouths of society, she would not be surprised.

Even her mother, so inobservant years ago when Marguerite had lived in fear of the Opera Ghost, knew that there was a risk of something developing between her daughter and Henri Laroche. His visits were not forbidden, but when his name came into the conversation, or his figure appeared in the parlor doorway, her back stiffened and her lips pursed in obvious disapproval. Though she did not say much about it, she had begun to stay home more often. Marguerite knew it was out of concern for her health, since the baby was due in a few short months, but she had a nagging feeling that Isabelle also took it as an opportunity to observe her daughter and Henri more closely, preventing infidelity to either person's spouse. Isabelle's silence, Marguerite feared, was only temporary, and weakening all the time. On the contrary, _Monsieur_ Gautier, absorbed in his work with the opera house, hardly considered his daughter's impropriety. That, or he did not believe there was much risk in Henri's visits, so long as she remained in confinement, as was proper for a pregnant lady, rather than going out and being seen all over Paris with him.

Though Marguerite had done her best to prevent it, gossip had a way of leaking out that defied all laws of nature. Best not to say anything else to Katie; she had probably said too much already. Although he had employed several spies in his lifetime, Erik still had his own way of obtaining news. An offhand remark from a passerby, one overheard remark in a theater office, and his old jealousy could return, leaving Marguerite again in fear of her life, and Henri entirely devoid of his own.

Again sympathetic, Marguerite reached out and touched her friend's shoulder. "What is done is done, Katie. I do not blame you for the way you acted, for I'm sure I would have done the same thing if I were in your situation—and I have been. Forgive me if I was harsh…I simply don't know what to do at this point. Except…nothing."

"I'm sorry, too, Marguerite!" Katie glanced over her shoulder, as though half-expecting Erik to be standing in the doorway. "Please let me know if there is something I may do for you. But I ought to go now. You know…you know I must."

Marguerite nodded, at last sad to see her go. She stood up heavily and walked with her to the door, her heart aching for the younger woman. In the foyer, she hesitated, remembering something.

"Wait a moment, Katie." She tried to put a little more cheerfulness into her voice. "You haven't met Solange yet."

Katie's hazel eyes lit up with pleasure and fear, and she sucked in her breath. "Oh, I dared not ask! I'm sure she's the loveliest child, Marguerite, and I would adore seeing. But one glance at her and I just know that I would spill to him everything that happened today, like the coward I am."

Marguerite lifted her chin a little. "If that is what you fear, then so be it. If only I could take the brunt of his anger upon myself and set you free from all this. Heaven knows I understand what you are going through right now."

"I could never ask that of you."

"You are not asking me—I'm offering. That is, I would be offering if it were possible."

"Even so, I could not allow it. If I am foolish enough to defy him the way I am doing by being here and telling you everything, then let him take his anger out on me. You are a dear friend, Marguerite. I wish I were brave like you."

"I'm not brave. I'm tired and uncertain."

With a sob, Katie embraced her tightly. "I'm so sorry to see you in this state. If I had the nerve I would tell Erik just what I thought of him, and what he's doing to you, but I haven't your strength."

Marguerite patted her back, barely holding back her own tears. "Go now, Katie. I hold nothing against you. Do whatever you must to protect yourself from him. If he does threaten your life again, then by all means, come find me. Knowing what you are going through, I cannot allow it to continue if he will not come to his senses."

Shaking her head, Katie pulled away, sighing deeply to gather her strength. "I _will _take care of myself. There is little you could do for me in your condition, after all. Knowing that you have forgiven me will give me the courage I need to go on. I don't know what I will do about Erik, but…" She shrugged weakly. "Perhaps I will see you soon."

"Until then," Marguerite said, opening the front door, "I wish you well. Possibly after this child is born, I will regain the strength to find him again, but that is several months away."

"If only!" Katie said. She kissed Marguerite on the cheek and stepped out the door. "Goodbye."

Marguerite watched her hurry down the steps and across the street, headed back to the opera house and its dormitories. Feeling clumsy, heavy, and vastly unattractive, she groaned and finally forced herself to turn away. For an instant, the idea fluttered through her mind that this unborn child could mean the end of her earthly suffering, as the doctor had warned her when Solange was born. Her heart beat faster with her growing dread, and she tried to rid herself of the disgusting thought. Solange needed her. Erik needed her. The child inside of her needed her. No matter how bad her life was, she would attack the Fates themselves to stay in it.

Closing the door, she turned and saw her mother standing at the top of the staircase, gripping the banister with white-knuckled fingers.

"No need for concern," Marguerite said, before Isabelle could ask. "I do not expect him today."


	49. The Love Where Death Has Set His Seal

**Well, I'm back. I was up writing this chapter until almost 4 AM, because I got so sucked into it. And, for some reason, I write better when I'm tired. This is actually going to end up being almost a double update. I will have the next chapter up soon, and I mean **_**soon**_**—as in, tomorrow or the next day. I wanted to hurry the action along a little more. As a matter of fact, these were going to be 2 separate chapters, and I combined them into one massive chapter. And there is going to be a new one up soon, too. That means that, _seriously_, there are only a few chapters left in this story until the end. OMG!  
**

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Marguerite groaned as silently as she could, not wanting to distract Solange as she shifted her weight in the chair. The little girl was absorbed in the piano music she had discovered in a drawer, and Marguerite, hoping for a distraction, was listening to her play. Unfortunately, the house was stuffy, even in the morning, and Marguerite hardly found any comfort in the heat. She was desperately looking forward to autumn. At least there was a little relief in knowing she was more than halfway through her pregnancy.

Solange beamed as she finished the piece with a flourish of her little fingers. Marguerite clapped and returned the bright smile.

"Wonderful, _petit_. You've worked so hard on that song—it is very much improved since yesterday."

"Thank you, Mama." She turned the pages, contemplating an encore, before looking at her mother again. "Do you think Papa will like it?"

The question was like a jolt to Marguerite's heart. It had been days, almost a week, since Solange had last asked about her father, and Marguerite was not sure whether to be thankful or more anxious. She was running out of excuses and alibis for his lengthy absence, and had been glad for the lull. At the same time, she worried that even Solange had given up on ever seeing Erik again. She certainly did not want the child to forget her father. Even so, the recent silence regarding Erik had led Marguerite into premature tranquility, and she was completely unprepared this time.

Her heart beating a little faster, she just managed to stammer, "He will love it."

Solange looked back at the music, pouting slightly. "I want him to come back. When will he come back, Mama? You _said_ it would be soon."

Thinking a little more honesty would be appropriate, Marguerite closed her eyes and sighed. Not opening them, she said, "Solange, I don't know when he will return. I had expected him long before now, and I don't know what's keeping him."

The terrified expression on the girl's face made Marguerite swear silently to herself and wish she had made up another fairy tale. "What if something bad happened to him? Mama, what if he got hurt again? Should we go look for him?"

Her words brought back Marguerite's memories of their country house, empty for months now. She had not expected to feel such a pang of homesickness for it, or even for the Garceau family. It had been so long…too long. It was a different world here in the city. An entire lifetime seemed to have passed since they had all been together—and happy. _Happy?_ Marguerite almost laughed at her negligent memory, thinking of that day old Pierre had come to her door, telling her that Erik was lying in his barn, severely injured. She thought of that day a few weeks later—the reason she was clumsy and bloated now—and the subsequent fights with Erik over destroying the baby that was even now growing inside her.

The doctor said she might not survive another birth…

_Were we ever happy?_ she asked herself.

Abruptly her mind snapped back to the present, to the green-eyed little girl staring at her with palpable fear. She shook her head.

"Don't worry about him, Solange. I know he is safe. I just don't know what has been keeping him for so long. Perhaps he wanted to visit his sick friend for a while."

Marguerite knew about Mme Giry's death. Katie had told her of that, too, but she had not informed Solange, thinking it unnecessary. Now that she needed the excuse, she was glad she had made that decision.

"_I _want to see him, though!" Solange said, her expression changing from fear back to sulking.

"I do too, sweetheart, believe me. But we must be patient."

There came a knock at the door, and this time Marguerite groaned without hiding it from her daughter. It was late morning, and too hot for visitors. Katie had been to see her a few days ago, and Marguerite did not expect to see her for another week. Paige had come to visit only yesterday, having returned from a brief stint of travel with Nadir. Hopefully this new visitor had come to speak to Isabelle, and the maid could tell her that Mme Gautier was not at home.

When the maid came to tell Marguerite that there was a visitor for _her_ in the front parlor, she knew exactly who it was. She contemplated refusing him, but thought the better of it and instead heaved herself up from the chair. Urging her daughter to practice, she told Solange she would be back soon.

Just as she had suspected, it was Henri she met in the parlor. He was standing at the window, smiling cheerfully and holding a hatbox. In the past few weeks, he had brought Marguerite a few small gifts—flowers, a book, some sweets—so the hatbox was not a shocking sight. She had a feeling, however, that it did not contain a hat.

The box was meowing.

"Good morning," Henri said, taking a few steps toward her. "Marguerite, you look as lovely as ever." He frowned, seeing her a little closer now. "Perhaps a bit tired. Have I arrived at a bad time today?"

Sinking into a chair, Marguerite said, "I don't know what a _good _time would be. I have been feeling out of sorts all week, and the baby does not seem quite pleased, either."

"How terrible," he said. "Well, I do hope I have something that will cheer you up." He removed the box's lid, which Marguerite just noticed had holes punched in it. Blinking in the sudden light, a tiny black-and-white kitten whined and pawed at the edges of his container.

Her heart twisting, Marguerite stared at the kitten. Struggling to remain seated and indifferent, she shifted her eyes and glared at Henri. "Do not for a moment fool yourself. I know exactly what you're trying to do."

Henri looked at her with large, guiltless eyes. The kitten's mews became more impatient. "What do you mean? I picked him up on the way here this afternoon, on a whim. I saw him in the shop window and thought he would be an ideal companion for Solange while the two of you remain in town."

Marguerite only crossed her arms over her bulging stomach and frowned at him. At this he shrugged, resigned. "Very well. I'll just return him, shall I?" He started to put the lid back on the box to muffle the kitten's cries.

"No, don't," Marguerite said. Grunting inelegantly, she stood up from the chair and came toward him. Lifting the animal out of the box herself, she said, "I'd rather have Solange receive a gift from you than allow you to hand this kitten over to heaven only knows what fate. Paris is even crueler for animals than people."

Though he was prepared to gloat over his success in manipulating her decision, Marguerite's last remark was enough to make Henri toss the box to the parlor floor in frustration. "Would it be so _very_ dreadful if I should give your daughter a gift?" Scratching the kitten's ears, Marguerite was too distracted to reply, so Henri reached out and tipped her chin, forcing her to look at him. "Marguerite, what are you really afraid of?"

She jerked her face away from his gentle touch, cradling the kitten closer as though to shield him from Henri. "Don't _do _that," she said, teeth clenched. Tilting her face downward, she said, "Must I have a reason for everything? Do you absolutely _have_ to know allthat I'm thinking?"

"Not necessarily," Henri said reluctantly. "I certainly don't want to make you angry. I just want to make things better for you and your daughter." He watched Marguerite stroking the kitten and finally spoke up again, this time without any trace of falsity in his words. "All right, I suppose _I_ ought to tell _you_ everything, and not the other way around. I want to make a good impression upon both you and Solange, because I'm going to be gone for some time."

When she at last looked at him willingly again, he spoke his next words in a rush to get them out in the open. "My wife Celine has returned to Paris."

Still cradling the kitten, Marguerite stepped backward and lowered herself on shaky knees into the chair again. "_Mon dieu_. I knew you were going to tell me that someday. I just…somehow never thought you would."

"You understand," Henri said, sounding as though he hated every word he was saying, "I would not be surprised if there were a few rumors circulating about…us. I believe it would be best if I were to be especially attendant to her for a while. Surely you can see why that would be prudent."

"Prudent?" Marguerite smiled coldly. "Now I know why you have not been here for nearly a week."

Henri nodded. When the maid passed by the room, he called out to her and asked her to bring Solange to them.

"No," Marguerite said. "Bernadette, do _not _bring Solange in here. I will go to her." She stood up and turned back to speak to Henri. "Attendant, you say," Marguerite mused, scratching the kitten's fuzzy head and making him purr. "I suppose that includes all the usual husbandly duties, does it?" When Henri's face turned crimson, she had all the answer she needed. She walked out the doorway and down the hall, where Solange was playing the same song as before.

"Look what someone has brought us, Solange!" Marguerite said as she came into the room.

"A kitten!" Solange gasped, sliding off the piano bench and approaching her mother.

"Isn't he sweet?" She held him out to her, but Solange hesitated.

"What about Beatrice?"

Marguerite found herself actually fighting against impatience. "She's back at home, darling, and I'm sure she would love him. But you know, your grandmother may want to keep him here after we leave." Solange looked at the kitten warily. "Don't you want to pet him?"

She did take the kitten from Marguerite, cradling him gently, albeit still a little hesitantly. "Who brought him?"

"M Laroche—he thought we might enjoy another little friend in the house."

When Solange frowned deeply, Marguerite silently cursed the child's precocity. Was her daughter also wary of Henri's motives for such a gift? He still seemed determined to replace Erik in Marguerite's heart, but did he mean to do the same for Solange? The girl had only met the man a few times, but Marguerite could not help wondering how much, if anything, Solange suspected about him. His intentions were far from evil, but certainly worthy of resentment. Marguerite did not blame her daughter if she despised Henri's attempts to win her over, but she was tired, and did not want to struggle with her now.

"Go into the kitchen and find a little milk for him," Marguerite said. "Just be gentle when you pet him. Show him to your grandmother when she comes home, all right? In the meantime, you might want to think of a name."

Solange nodded. She had inherited a little of Erik's way with animals, and did not seem to take her resentment out on the kitten. When the little girl toddled away, Marguerite sighed in relief that Solange was being obedient today. When she returned to the parlor, Henri was standing right where she had left him.

"I didn't think you would still be here," she said. "Would it not be rather suspicious to be seen here at this time of day?"

"Marguerite," he said, coming toward her, "I don't know what else to do. I would prefer not to live deceitfully, but if you will not have me, I cannot think of any alternative than to stay away from here for a while. Every moment I will resent it—I will want to be _here_, with you. The cruelest thing is that you don't seem to realize or _care_ how greatly it will hurt me to be away."

Lowering her head, Marguerite wrapped her arms around herself as best she could, trying to shield herself and her child from some invisible attack. "I do care," she said, "and I do realize it. I told you that I am deeply grateful for your friendship. Perhaps this time apart will be valuable. I suppose I have come to depend on you too much, and it must not be so." She almost felt like crying, but her eyes were dry. There was a long silence in the room; she stayed still and kept her eyes downward.

"Marguerite," he said in a low tone, "I know I have no right to this, but…I love you. There is nothing that I would refuse to do for you, and I…I've wanted you for so long. You _know_ this already. I know that you care for me, too. Would it be unforgivable if I asked that…after your baby is born…when Erik has lost his last hold on you…Well, I want to make you happy."

She waited a few seconds before saying, "You have not _asked_ me a question yet."

Her words seemed to be the push he needed. "Marguerite, when you have recovered from childbirth, will you finally allow me to love you completely?"

At last she looked at him, cocking her head and feigning curiosity. "You mean marry me."

His cheeks colored again. "You know that is not yet possible."

"I know." Was that the sound of regret winding through her words?

"But do…do you understand my meaning?"

She nodded. "After the baby is born, you want to consummate our affair." She had to hide her surprise when he looked straight at her, the shame disappearing from his face to be replaced by an intensity she did not know he was capable of. He was not hiding it, not trying to moderate it; he knew exactly what he was asking of her, and he was no longer embarrassed to say so.

She looked away again, almost doubling over, thinking that she did not have the means to fight the thoughts flying at her. What had happened to her mind? Millions of past memories, present emotions, and future fears entered her head like a plague of gnats, too small and numerous to ward off. As she clenched her eyes shut, one question stood out, repeating itself:

_Were we ever happy?_

Feeling dizzy, she opened her eyes. Gradually the room became steady again, and she was able to face him again. She cleared her throat and tried to summon as much dignity as she had left within her.

"All right, Henri. I have betrayed my husband in every way but physically—I might as well make my downfall complete." Though her words were cold, they lacked the sarcasm that would have made them false.

From his expression, she could tell that, though he had the answer he desired, this was hardly unfolding as he had hoped it would. "Don't do anything you do not wish to do," he warned her.

"Oh, not to worry," she said. "I wish to."

_Were we ever happy?_

She knew he was surprised at her answer. Surely, after all this time, after all the words she had thrown at him in defense of her husband, she would put up more of a fight? Ah, but that was just the thing—she was tired of fighting. She was tired of everything, even of _life_, the way it had been treating her. As she watched Henri, she felt sorry for him. He seemed to want to be pleased with her reply, but seemed wary of its truthfulness.

"Marguerite," he said, stepping closer to her. "Do you really mean that?"

She looked up at him. Something inside warned her against betraying Erik, and told her to stay the course she had set for herself long ago. But over the past few weeks—months—that little something had grown smaller and quieter.

In answer to his question, she reached up to wrap her arms around his neck. He inclined his head slightly, but she brought it down further, closing her eyes and pulling him into a kiss. Her stomach curled in a strange mixture of pleasure and revulsion, knowing she embraced a man who loved her, who could never be hers, and to whom she could never belong. She felt herself growing dizzy again, enjoying the taste of him and the warmth of his closeness. He pulled back from her and cupped her face in his hands. When she saw the gratitude in his eyes, she thought her heart would bleed.

_No_, she decided. _We were never happy_.

* * *

"She's beautiful, isn't she?"

Erik scowled and said nothing.

Katie kept staring at the actress onstage. Rehearsals were still going strong for _Faust_, much to Erik's chagrin. Katie had informed him that a few of the older members of the cast and crew had expressed a number of doubts when the opening show had been announced. Most of them believed that this particular opera was cursed, and it was foolish to perform it. They expected backdrops to collapse, actors to choke, and stage-hands to tumble from the catwalks at the hands of the Opera Ghost.

Weary of it all, Erik had done nothing to discourage the performance, and everything went smoothly. Even the _corps du ballet _did not share as many ghost stories as they used to. "They concentrate on the real-life scandals going on between the actors," Katie had explained to Erik earlier.

Though her pulse still raced with her fear of him, Katie had begun to see him as more human than monster, thanks to her conversations with Marguerite. Erik had been less demanding, and she wondered if he had completely lost interest in spying on his wife. He grew angry whenever Katie mentioned Marguerite, so she supposed that was not the issue. Seeing his melancholy herself, she decided to believe Marguerite's explanation that he was too stubborn to return to her, thinking she was better off without him.

What a horrible fate for any man!

For the past week or two, Erik had not demanded any information from Katie, though she still came when he summoned him, unwilling to risk his displeasure. Most of the time, during rehearsals, she would notice him in the balconies or elsewhere, and would seek him out. Katie adored Marguerite, and if there was something in Erik that she found lovable, perhaps Katie ought to try to understand it herself. Ultimately, she might help Marguerite and Erik reconcile. The more she thought of it, the less it made sense, but Katie knew that, somehow, they belonged together. For Marguerite's sake, she wanted to help them understand, even if she never would.

Earlier that day, she had seen Erik with an exotic, familiar-looking man who seemed to be a kind of friend of his. Not wanting to interrupt their visit, Katie had waited until she spotted Erik sneaking around, alone again. She made sure she would not soon be needed before leaving her post backstage. When she caught up with him, he was in a particularly foul mood, and she regretted her coming. He refused conversation, but she was afraid to leave him.

"Did your friend have bad news for you?" she ventured to ask.

"There was nothing _new_ about it," he snapped. "He came to hound me about the same things he has been hounding me about for months. I'll thank you not to mention him again!"

Katie sighed, but said nothing else for a while. Finally she said, "I think they will be bringing the dancers on in the next scene. I'll have to go work with them."

"Then go."

She hesitated. "Have you any new assignment for me? If you do, I'd like to know about it before I leave."

Erik snorted. "You are hardly useful to me anymore. Do you miss the extra income? If I have a task for you, rest assured I will inform you."

Katie stood up to return to the _corps_. As she walked away, she stopped and turned back to Erik. "You've watched the rehearsals a great deal. What do you think of the dancing?"

She could tell he was gritting his teeth. "I am no authority on such things, and I care little for the ballet rats. The movements and voices of the legitimate performers are all that concerns me about an opera. As long as the dancers do not disgrace the show and bring unwarranted attention to themselves, I consider it an adequate job."

Katie sighed and walked away, her hopes of a compliment on her tasks as assistant dance teacher now dashed to pieces. She should have known better than to expect something resembling praise from Erik!

Staying behind to watch the rest of the rehearsals, Erik had not noticed her disappointment. Since Mme Giry's death and the poisonous words Meg had thrown at him, his concern for anything in the world was nearly nonexistent. He had regressed, not to the time of Christine and his reign as the Phantom of the Opera, but before that—when the _Opéra Populaire_ had been new, and all he wanted was a hole to crawl into, to disappear from the world. He had made a complete circle now, coming back where he had started, but he could not pretend that it had left him untouched.

Without Mme Giry to visit or care for, nothing remained in Paris for him anymore. Even his beloved underground home was uninhabitable, thanks to his own anger and idiocy. His music, his violin, and his piano were all in the little house in the country. His wife and daughter were somewhere in the city, and probably much happier without him. How far along was Marguerite in her pregnancy? Would she _survive? _Would she and Solange return to the countryside when the baby was born? Would that miserable little Henri take them in? Erik felt himself grow hot at the thought, and his hand almost reached instinctively for the Punjab lasso.

Although he watched the rehearsals every day, Erik took no pleasure in it. Perhaps he ought to quit the city entirely. He was sick of sleeping on the remains of the bed he had destroyed in the Louis-Philippe room, his coffin having long been occupied by another victim. He was weary of the filth around him when he went below to his old "home." Everything reminded him of something miserable now. In one room, Marguerite had shown him where Marcel had attacked her. A certain abandoned corridor reminded him of the moment he first saw her—terrified, immature, and fascinated. In the chapel, memories of both Christine and Marguerite coexisted.

Ah, Christine…How lovely she looked the last time he had seen her! Though Erik had promised Meg Giry that he would not shame her mother's funeral with his presence, Katie had told him the place and time. He simply hid himself and observed at a distance. He recognized many people from the _Opéra Populaire_, but the ones who captured the most of his attention were Christine and Raoul de Chagny, attending without their offspring.

Having already spent time with Antoinette Giry before her death, naturally Erik's attention had focused on Christine, who leaned against Raoul for comfort while she gripped Meg's hand. She was still beautiful, of course. She would _always_ be beautiful, even when her own children were married off and her dark curls had turned to silver. She could have been the greatest opera performer of her time, and Erik regretted the fact that she would never see such a future.

What surprised him was that the regret, for _her _sake, was all that he had felt. His memories of her were still completely clear, but their weight had faded. As he watched her, Erik tried to understand what was so different about seeing her this time. At last he realized that his desire for her was gone—he was even empty of any hatred for the vicomte. Even when he had married Marguerite, after fathering a child of his own, he still harbored resentment and longing for Christine. Seeing her at the funeral, it was gone, and he did not know when it had dissolved forever. He felt sorry that she could never be the great singer she could have been, but he no longer wanted to be her creator and master. With that realization, there came a sense of freedom he had never known.

When he returned to the theater, the futility of his life overwhelmed that feeling of freedom. Looking around at the subterranean lake and the house on its shore, he had to wonder—why had he come back to this place? He had lost all track of time. It had to have been months since he last saw Marguerite. How could he have stood living here this long?

Nadir had come to see him, and it was as he had told Katie—the Persian had nothing new to say. Erik found it easy to resent his old friend, whose excuse for a long absence had been that he was traveling with his lady, Paige Lambert. Again, to no avail, he tried to convince Erik that Marguerite would willingly accept him back into her arms. Everything Nadir told him about Marguerite had been filtered through Paige, and so Erik dismissed it as nothing but the repetition of feminine emotions, cloudy in reason and empty of truth.

Now, looking down at the dancers coming across the stage, Erik made a decision. He had had enough of Paris and the _Opéra Populaire_, and it was useless to remain. Even without Marguerite and Solange, he had to go back to the countryside.

He had to go home.

* * *

**A/N: It's been a while since I've begged for reviews, but I am very curious about who is still reading this story. So please, take an extra minute or two!**


	50. I Love Not Less

**A/N: Um…wow. I could have cried when I checked my email the other day and had all these reviews. I did not expect that kind of response. Thank you all so, SO much! Believe me, I love writing these stories, and it makes me happier than you can imagine that you love to read them. Thank you everyone for your support and your faithfulness in reading. Oh my gosh! whew! All right, I have to calm down now.  
**

**One more thing: Sorry this is a day later than I had promised. I tried to rush it, so I crammed a lot into these few pages, and some of it isn't exactly proofread, so forgive me if something doesn't seem quite right. I hope you have fun anyway.  
**

* * *

Marguerite opened her eyes against the thick darkness. Something had disturbed her dreams and roused her from sleep, but now that she was awake, she could not think of what it might have been. Then it came again, a quick tug against her. She strained her neck, trying to see over the edge of the bed, if perhaps Solange had pulled at the blanket. Heaven only knew what the child would need at this hour. But she was not there—yet Marguerite was sure she had not imagined the sensation.

Though she closed her eyes and tried to get comfortable again, her mind became too preoccupied to shut down once more and let her sleep. She did not know how much time had passed before she had that same, brief feeling near her stomach. Her eyes snapped open again. This time, she realized it was coming from inside her. If returning to sleep _had_ been difficult, now it was utterly impossible. Alarmed, Marguerite sat up. What was happening?

Just enough moonlight shone into the room that she could see the clock—it was three-fifteen in the morning. She placed her hand over her stomach, but could not feel anything strange. Was the baby all right? She propped up her pillows against the headboard and reclined, waiting for the feeling to come back. Despite her concern, she almost dozed off before she felt another tug at her abdomen. It was much more painful this time. Her hand shook as she ran it through her hair, wondering what to do. Should she wait until morning, _real _morning, instead of disturbing the household now?

It had been only six months—if these pains were the first contractions of childbirth, something was very wrong. She moved to lie down on the bed again, curling slightly to her side. For a moment, she had the idea of walking all the way to the _Opéra Populaire_ to find Erik. She almost laughed at the insanity of it. Indeed, at this moment Erik was the person she wanted most of all, but to reach him herself was pure madness. She might collapse in an alley and have the baby there, if it was indeed the baby's time to come.

He was so perceptive. What if he could sense her misery from wherever he happened to be? Resting one arm over her stomach, she closed her eyes and concentrated on Erik. Wherever he was, she prayed to God that he would hear her and come to the house immediately. Was it possible? For the moment, it was all she had to hope for. She concentrated so hard, in fact, that she failed to keep track of the recurring cramps in her belly, and she fell back to sleep.

She woke again at seven in the morning, gasping at the severity of the pain this time. At first, she wanted to call out for her mother from the bed, but she did not want to alarm Solange. By the time she sat up and staggered out of the room into the hall, she realized that her idea had not worked. Erik had not miraculously heard her, and he had not come to her aid. Biting back tears, she looked in on Solange. Thankfully, the child had not inherited her father's sleeping patterns; she was deeply immersed in her dreams.

"Mother?" Marguerite whispered from the top of the stairs. Another contraction seized her, and she gripped the banister, needing to sit down. She clenched her eyes shut and groaned, not noticing Isabelle coming from her own bedroom.

"Marguerite!" she gasped, hurrying to help her stand. "What has gotten into you?"

"The baby," Marguerite said, barely choking out the words. "The pains started earlier this morning."

"But it's not time yet, is it? You have _months_ left." Isabelle tried to speak calmly, but Marguerite saw all over her face that her mother was nearly panicked.

"It's been six months, give or take," Marguerite said, letting her mother lead her back to the room and help her into bed. "I don't know what to do."

"Your father is out for a morning walk," Isabelle said. She rearranged Marguerite's pillows and opened the window a little further to let in more of the cool breeze. In the back of her mind, Marguerite thought the air smelled like rain was coming, but she was in no mood or condition to make remarks about the weather. "I will send one of the maids for the doctor," Isabelle added. "When I come back, I will bring you some water."

Marguerite stared out the window, trying to prepare for the next contraction. Instead, she found herself worrying as she attempted to prepare for her own death. In the past few years, she had forgotten the severity of childbirth pain. As she concentrated on raised her daughter, the experience had faded into a numbness only memories can possess. Now, she remembered how difficult the birth had been—the half-conscious state, floating on ether, the pain that seemed so cruel, yet so distant—and the midwife's suggestion.

_Women through the ages have survived much worse. But if you desire more children, perhaps you should reconsider…_

Gritting her teeth, she twisted the bedsheets in silence as another pain took her in its hold. _God, please don't let me die—don't let either of us die!_ What would be done with Solange? Her parents would probably take care of her. What about Erik? She had never been able to see Katie recently…or Paige…Henri…What about them?

Her eyes widened with an idea, and when the contraction had passed, she waited anxiously for her mother's return. When Isabelle came back, Marguerite waited until she set down the glass of water she carried before reaching out to grasp her mother's hand.

"Did you send for the doctor?" she asked.

Isabelle nodded. "He will be here as soon as he can, I'm sure."

Marguerite swallowed, lowering her voice as though there were others around to hear. "When my father comes back from his walk, you must have him send for Henri, and have him come here."

Just as she had expected, Isabelle was furious with Marguerite's suggestion. Her eyes darkened, and a crimson hue came over her face. "Are you _mad?_" she hissed. "The idea! Why would you want him here, of all people, to see you in this state?" She paced the room a little, as though unsure of what to do with herself. "Do you realize how indecent that is?"

"I do, _Maman_," she said. "But I also know this is an unusual situation, and you will have to trust me. I _need _him here, to do a favor for me. He is the only one now who could."

"What is so important that you must have it done now?" Isabelle asked, not understanding. "Tell me, and I will see to it."

Marguerite groaned and leaned back into the pillows, another contraction coming and passing. "I want Erik to be here," she said, when it was over.

"Oh, child," Isabelle said, sitting at the edge of the bed and gently brushing the wet locks of hair from Marguerite's perspiring brow. "I'm sure you do, darling, but if he has not come to you by now…" She sighed, looking at her daughter a little accusingly. "Perhaps I could give you better advice if I knew more about what had happened between you two."

It had been weeks and weeks since the subject was broached, and Marguerite had never given her mother more than the basic details. Her father, as well, had never revealed what he knew of their daughter's husband. Marguerite always felt a little guilty for leaving her mother so deeply in the dark, but she never really regretted it. Even now, she was not going to tell her anything more. In response to Isabelle's remark, she shook her head.

"I cannot tell you more," she said. "But I can tell you that if you would send Father for Henri, it would greatly ease my distress." Isabelle pressed her lips tightly together, unwittingly signaling that Marguerite had won the battle, though her mother was none too pleased about it.

She stood up stiffly. "Well, he should be back soon. If it such a weighty matter, I suppose it must be done." She moved to the doorway. "I am going to check on Solange. If she is awake, I'll see that she is occupied, and you will not have to concern yourself with her. I'll say you are not feeling well and that she is to be quiet so you may rest."

"Thank you, Mother," Marguerite said.

* * *

Henri's self-imposed embargo on Marguerite's house apparently did not extend to such emergencies. He arrived quickly, surprising even Marguerite. By the time he first rushed into the room, however, she was in a state of agony. Writhing in pain, every inch of skin was flushed and damp, Marguerite at first did not notice he was there. The contractions had begun to come rapidly, though she could not feel the baby about to emerge. The doctor thought that the best thing to do was wait, though he seemed irritated that Marguerite had refused the chloroform he offered to dull the pain—and her senses.

As she moaned, her eyes shut tightly, Henri stood just inside the room, splattered with rain and watching in horror. Whatever he had heard about the misery of childbirth, he had certainly not expected this. Pale and shaking slightly, he finally addressed her when her latest contraction seemed to be subsiding. "Marguerite, I'm here."

At first she could only murmur, her lips forming words he could not here. Then she took a deeper breath, and spoke up. "Thank God…"

He took a hesitant step closer. "Tell me what you need, Marguerite, and I'll see it done. Anything at all."

She supposed she ought to be embarrassed to be conducting this scene in front of the doctor, but she also guessed—or at least hoped—he witnessed things far more shocking. She gathered her courage to ask her favor of Henri. Finally, she said, "I need you bring Erik to me."

He stared at her as though she had told him to kill her own daughter. "You cannot be serious!"

"I need him—here. _Please_, Henri…" Her eyes were becoming glassy again with more oncoming pain. "I don't know—what will happen—to me."

"You can't say that," he said, kneeling by the bed. "What good would it do to have him here? I don't think you quite know what you're saying. This is all too much for you to bear."

"Henri," Marguerite moaned through her anguish, "_please!_ Find Erik. You know where to go—the opera house—the cellars. You've been there before. You—_can't_—refuse me now." They both knew he could not abandon her and snub her request, not this time. At last he nodded, turning his back on her latest contraction and rushing down the stairs, leaving through the front door in time to hear her crying out in pain.

_Damn you, Erik! _he thought to himself, climbing back into his waiting carriage and directing the driver to the opera house. _When will I be rid of that monster?_ On the way to the _Opéra Populaire_, dark thoughts consumed his mind as he imagined all the things he would like to do to Erik once he arrived and found him. This was his fault. It was all his fault! He had done this to Marguerite, and he did not even have the decency to find her and inquire after her condition. But then, what else could be expected from a soulless ghost?

"Wait for me here," Henri instructed the coachman. Leaping out of the carriage, he dashed up the stairs to the main entrance. It was not fast enough, for the drizzle had begun to pour, and he was drenched by the time he got inside. Shaking his head like a wet dog, he headed off in what he had hoped was the right direction. It had been so long, he wondered if he could still find the way. Perhaps he ought to turn back now and simply tell Marguerite that Erik was nowhere to be found. No, she could tell—somehow, she would know he was lying.

The corridors were getting colder and darker, and he knew, descending another set of steps, that it was leading him correctly. He shivered, only then realizing that he was completely unprepared for an encounter with the Phantom. No pistol, no rope, no knife, not even a lantern to light his way—he was going in blind and defenseless, and not at all happy about it. If he had not been so hasty, he could have gone home and prepared. But then Celine would ask questions.

As if she had not already asked enough…

A noise further down the hallway made him stop. He held his breath and waited, but his heart was pounding so hard in his ears, he could barely hear anything else. Then he heard it—a rustle, a footfall—and a young woman came around the corner. She stopped when she saw him, her hazel eyes enormous and horrified.

"_You!_" she gasped.

Henri blinked, startled. "Have we met?"

The woman shook her head rapidly, the shocked expression only growing more severe. "But I know who you are." She crept closer and lowered her voice. "Are you coming after him?"

"After whom?"

"After Erik—who else would _you_ be looking for?"

Henri narrowed his eyes. He did not like this girl, who seemed to know him from elsewhere, though he would not have ever recognized her. How was it possible? "Who are you?" he asked.

"Why are you looking for him?" she asked, ignoring his question.

Henri sighed. "I haven't time for this nonsense," he said, and tried to push past her.

"Wait!" The woman reached out and stopped him. "Did Marguerite send you?"

Henri felt his heart flip over, and he felt sick to his stomach. "Are you her replacement?" he asked with a sneer.

The cry she released was a gasp of half-surprise and half-disgust. She took a step backward, shaking her head again. "_Never_. I could never do such a thing. And with _him!_" She shuddered. "Marguerite is a dear friend of mine, M Laroche. I know you love her, too."

If he did not get away from her, Henri felt he might be sick. "Tell me where he is."

She shrugged. "Where he always is—I know you know the way. But you must not do him harm. He's going to leave Paris soon, anyway."

Henri was tired of this conversation. Once again, he started walking past her, speaking over his shoulder. "Marguerite _did _send me. She's having her baby too soon, and wants Erik there, God only knows why."

He kept going down the hall, but met with no resistance this time. In fact, the girl said nothing at all. He stopped and looked back, only to see her standing still, watching him with her hand clamped over her mouth, tears welling up in her eyes. Unable to offer any words of comfort and not needing any further assistance, he turned away again and kept going, wondering what had just happened.

The lake was as dark and foreboding as it had ever been. Still a little damp from the rain, Henri shivered in the chilly air, wondering what to do next. His chest was tight with panic, knowing that even now Marguerite may be dead or dying. If he took too long, neither he nor Erik would be able to be there for her. There was a way around the lake, leading to a place where the water was only about knee-deep, but he forgot which direction to take. Shrugging to himself, he decided to turn to the left.

Not five minutes later, he realized he had guessed correctly.

There was no Punjab lasso this time, not even an attack of any kind. But as Henri trudged along the lake's shore, a tall, shrouded figure stepped out from the darkness and blocked his path. Henri's first instinct was to dive into the water, but the beast could probably swim, too. So he stood his ground, staring up into the darkness of the hood that must have been concealing his face. If the Phantom did not kill him, then the silence alone might have.

"I assume," Erik finally said, "that you have a purpose for being here."

Henri somehow found his voice. "It was not my idea, I assure you."

Erik slowly drew the deadly lasso from the folds of his cloak. "Then be quick about it."

"It's about Marguerite," Henri said. He heard the creaking of leather as the black gloves Erik was wearing tightened when he strengthened his grip on the rope.

"How _dare _you speak of her to _me!_" he hissed.

Sensing that his time on earth was drawing to a close, Henri spoke rapidly. "The baby is coming too soon, and she sent me for you. She wants you there, at her parents' house."

Erik stood so still that Henri began to wonder if he had heard him at all. "I certainly would not be here otherwise," he added.

"_Silence!_" Erik snapped. Henri shut up, but it was hardly silent. The lake water continued to lap against the shore. Erik's breathing came in hisses, as though each breath was a struggle, and he was taking them through clenched teeth.

"She sent you here?" he asked Henri.

"Indeed, though I advised her against it."

"I could not care less about your opinion," Erik said, his voice low but shaky.

When another few moments of silence limped past them, Henri finally said, "There isn't a moment to lose, _monsieur_. She's in a great deal of pain."

"Then _go_," Erik said. "You will summon a hansom to wait in the street for me. I will come up shortly—and when I do, your carriage will be _gone_." He turned away, muttering, "This had better not be a trap."

_Oh, if only it were, _Henri thought. "As _monsieur_ wishes," he said aloud, infusing his tone with disdain. When Erik almost literally vanished into the shadows, however, Henri almost collapsed with relief. Once he was certain that Erik was no longer nearby, he turned and ran all the way back to his own waiting carriage, his lungs nearly bursting by the time he was safely inside.

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**A/N: Heck yes, the moment you've all been waiting for is coming soooooon!**


	51. Though Less the Show Appear

**A/N: OK, here we go. This isn't the last chapter…but close. I'm sorry if this isn't the most fantastic one, but my real life has been getting in the way of my creative endeavors, and let's just say that my mind has been pulled in a million directions lately. I hope you enjoy it anyway, though it saddened me to write it. Oh, yes...it's also shorter. It was the only place where the cutoff worked. All right then, carry on.  
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* * *

Erik spotted the hansom cab almost immediately after he left the opera house, but he approached it warily, in spite of the rain. Just as he had ordered, Henri and his own carriage were nowhere to be found. Finally, he decided the younger man had been telling the truth, and not making some sorry attempt to trap him. He climbed into the cab and gave the driver the Gautiers' address. Only then did he realize the horror of what was happening.

He clenched his eyes shut, nearly falling victim to tears of weakness. Marguerite was ill. How long had this been going on—and all that time he had been completely absent! Erik felt sick to his stomach when he thought of how he had been preparing to leave the city that same day. After making the decision to move back to the country, he had dawdled for days, only to be held back by rain. Now, he almost found himself thanking God for the weather, without which he would have been well on his way. He would have never known Marguerite had needed him.

Why _did _she want him there? Erik wondered. Was she planning to blame him for her physical misery? It would have been true enough, but surely she could derive no comfort from that. Henri had been her companion for a long time by now. Why was he not sufficient for her in a time like this? And after all, she also had her parents…

_You're her husband, you imbecile, and the father of that child. What are you thinking even to wonder 'why'?_

Henri's carriage was in front of the house when Erik pulled up. Upon seeing him, Henri jumped out of the vehicle and ran up the steps in the rain, beating Erik to the front door. The two men had nothing to say to each other as they entered the foyer.

Erik looked around, holding the hood of his wet cloak close to his head. Though he had never before set foot in this house, he felt a profound connection to it. The Gautiers had lived here since they first moved to Paris years ago. It was here that Marguerite called home, the place from which she had snuck away to come to the opera-house and do Erik's bidding. Then, years later, it was where she had fled, with her daughter, when Erik proved too taxing for any sane person to tolerate.

He had to resist the urge to charge through the house, breaking down each door until he found her. It was concern that made him hesitate—the house was chillingly quiet, and no one had come to greet them. He had barely a second to register these details before a small weight collided with his legs.

"_Papa!_"

His heart flipping over, Erik bent down to scoop Solange into his arms. "_Ange_," he murmured, hugging her far too tightly. She didn't complain.

When he pulled back, she said, "Something's wrong with Mama, and no one will tell me anything!"

Now it was his stomach doing flips. Erik hadn't the time to comfort his daughter or to study her pink eyes and tear-streaked face, or to marvel at how she'd grown in the past few months and become even more beautiful.

"That's why I'm here, my love," Erik said, setting her down and laying a hand on her hair. "I have to find Mama. Go practice your music and be good—or read something—and I will find you as soon as I can."

Thrilled at her father's arrival, despite the tension and fear permeating the house, Solange nodded and hurried off to obey. Realizing Henri was still standing behind him, Erik quickly turned around and glared at the younger man. Henri's face was white, and he was staring at the corner around which Solange had disappeared. Apparently he, too, was another person who could not believe a lovely child could come from such seed as Erik's.

"I would be most obliged," Erik said, gritting his teeth, "if you would show me where my wife is."

Henri nodded and hurried up the staircase, Erik right at his heels like one of the Furies. They stopped in front of a heavy wooden door, and Henri raised his hand to knock. He hesitated when both of them heard voices, and a woman sobbing. The two men glanced at each other, then at the same time recognized what was absent from the sounds within—the cries of a newborn infant. Erik shoved Henri aside and barged into the room without announcement, coming to an abrupt halt at the sight before him.

Isabelle Gautier stood the closest, gaping at him in shock and recognition. Normally a well-groomed woman, her graying hair was messy, and in her hands she held a large basin full of red-stained water, a dirty cloth floating in it. Beside the bed was a middle-aged, balding man with glasses on his nose and blood on his hands—the doctor, Erik presumed. His eyes swept across these two in an instant to settle on the weeping, disheveled woman sitting up in the bed, surrounded by bloody sheets and holding a small bundle.

His wife.

The noise in the room had plummeted at the same time the tension had increased, but Marguerite did not seem to notice. She did not realize that her long-estranged husband was standing right in front of her. Erik wondered if he would have recognized her in any other environment. Her face—something about it had changed, something essential and intangible. She was pale and drawn, weary and grieving, and yet he had seen her this way before. There was something else there—or not there. Without thinking any further, he moved toward the bed and leaned over her. Not even the doctor made an objection.

"Marguerite," he said, speaking softly, just enough for her to hear him over her own sobs.

"_No!_" she snapped, refusing to look at him and moving as though to shield the bundle in her arms. "_You will not take him from me!_"

"I won't," he said, straightening again. He looked the doctor in the eye. "What happened to her?"

"I'm afraid I don't know you, _monsieur_," the doctor said nervously.

"He's her husband," Isabelle said, setting down her burden. "Erik. It's about time you came. She was asking for you this whole time."

Erik turned back to his wife, eyeing the thing in her hands. "Marguerite, let me see."

"No, no, no," she said, over and over, between her cries and sniffles and shaking her head back and forth. "You can't take him. I won't let you take him!"

"I'm not going to," Erik said. "Marguerite, it's _me!_" He reached out to grasp her shoulder, and she shuddered under the touch. But she finally stopped moving and actually looked at him. When she did, a fog seemed to lift from her vision, and she looked as though she was unable to believe what she was seeing.

"Yes," Erik said. "I'm back, Marguerite. I'm here."

She stared at him, blinking, for a few seconds more before she burst into a new tears. "It's over—it's over!"

"What is over?" he asked, once more alarmed. "Marguerite, that is the baby, isn't it." He was not asking a question, but stating what he knew—what he feared—to be true. She only lowered her head and began to rock the bundle. Erik glanced at the doctor and then at Isabelle, but neither of them would look him in the eye. Isabelle seemed to have been crying, as well but her own eyes had dried by now.

"What is going on?" Erik barked. "I demand to know what happened here!"

When no one answered him yet again, he wrested the bundle out of Marguerite's hands. For all her words, she was too weak to put up much of a fight. Erik unwrapped it, ignoring her pleas of "No, no!" and her hands stretching out for him to return it to her. When he had removed the cloths, he was left holding a tiny corpse in one hand. He knew the child—a boy—had to be small and unlikely to survive, but he had been wholly unprepared for the rest of it.

The baby looked as though God had created him from the feet up, but run out of sufficient resources in the process. Ten fingers, ten toes, and a normally proportioned torso. From the child's dainty feet to the mouth, everything appeared natural, all but the fact that he was too small—and dead.

But as for the rest of him…

Erik stared at the tiny head, disgusted and heartbroken. The nose was gone; there was only a stub of skin that did nothing to conceal the dark hole left in his face. The flesh was stretched tightly over his high cheekbones and forehead, the same yellow of aged paper, criss-crossed with purplish veins. It had none of the endearing plumpness a baby should have, and not even the bizarre redness of a normal infant. The faintest outline of his skull could be seen through the thin forehead. Aghast, Erik examined the body, his hands shaking.

Isabelle stood in a corner, her shoulders moving jerkily and her hands sickly white. The doctor stared with disgusted, horrified fascination at the child, and Marguerite kept weeping as though she had lost her mind. Erik stood beside the bed, his breathing erratic and every muscle tensed, ready to snap. Whether rage, or hatred, or revulsion dominated his face—or an unholy combination of all three—was anyone's guess. He thrust the miniscule body back into the cloths and held it out to the doctor, who took it.

"Get rid of it," Erik said.

"NO!" Marguerite screamed, her hands balled into fists, her face distorted with pain and grief.

Erik finally looked at her then, realizing that something besides the miscarriage was wrong with his wife. "Marguerite," he said, taking one of her hands, "he's dead. There's nothing else to do."

"No…no…" she mumbled, shaking her head.

"It's a child, Erik," Isabelle said, "and he needs a proper—"

"_Get rid of it_," Erik repeated. The doctor cleared his throat and left the room, making at least an attempt at maintaining his dignity. Isabelle watched Erik and Marguerite for a few seconds before following the doctor out of the room to join Henri in the hallway. Once the sound of the closing door stopped resonating in the room, Erik sank back to his knees at the bedside.

"I had no idea…" he said. "Now that I am here, I realize how foolish our situation has been all this time." He stopped, waiting for some kind of response or at least acknowledgement, and received nothing. Though Marguerite was watching the door, it was obvious she did not seeit—or hear a word Erik said.

"Had I known what you were going through, I would have come sooner, and without that imbecile to _fetch _me." He reached out a hand and tentatively brushed a few strands of hair from her forehead. Fortunately, Marguerite did notice that, and turned to look directly at him. Her hands were trembling, still frozen into fists. She stared at Erik, but when he drew closer to kiss her forehead, she flinched violently.

"Get away from me," she said, turning her head and lowering her eyes. Erik drew back, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. "You took my baby."

"Marguerite, it's dead! Even if it was alive, it would have died soon—by now, even. There was nothing you could do. It just…"

She lifted her gaze to his face, without actually looking into his eyes. She stared at his mask as though she had never seen it before and had no idea what it was doing there. The trembling in her hands spread to the rest of her body. He began to wonder if she even knew who he was. "I want my baby."

"I know, but…"

"Go away."

"You sent Henri to bring me. I thought you _wanted _me here."

"Go _away!_"

"_Marguerite!_" Erik snapped. When she looked away again, he grabbed her shoulders and forced her to turn in his direction. "Marguerite, this is Erik. _Erik_." Forgetting her pain, he shook her a little, trying to make her respond. "I wish that all this had never happened, and that the circumstances were different. And if you despise me for the rest of your life, I will never reproach you for it—I will agree with you, in fact. But from now on, I'm _here_."

She stopped shaking and closed her eyes, her shoulders slumping when Erik released her. "Erik," she whispered, leaning forward.

He caught her before she fell off the bed and held her close. When she managed to bring her arms around him, he relaxed a little, relieved that her mind was not completely gone.

"Erik," she repeated, the tears congesting her voice. "Our baby…"

"I'm sorry," he said. "It's going to be all right. I'm here now, and as soon as you're well again, we'll go home."

"Solange…" Marguerite mumbled into his shoulder.

"I saw her when I came in, and I'll talk to her. Once you're rested a little, I'll bring her in here and she can see her mother is just fine."

Marguerite weakly rolled her head back and forth. "No…not fine. Nothing will ever be fine again."

"Yes, it will," Erik insisted. "You'll see. Everything will be just as it used to be."

But Marguerite could not speak. She looked away from him, staring across the room with vacant eyes. Erik held her close, wondering what was to become of them. How _could _things go back to the way they were? It seemed so far in the past, such a different world, with different people. They were together again, at last—and yet they had so far left to go.


	52. The Same Old Promises

**A/N: Yes, well, we're just plugging right along with this story, aren't we? As infuriating as he can be, I'm usually sympathetic toward Erik (in case you couldn't tell), but I found myself getting _really _PO'd while I was writing this chapter. I know most of this story's readers aren't exactly fans of Henri, but I have some sympathy toward him, too. I would have had this posted sooner, but something about it was giving me trouble, and I had to work with it more than I expected. Anyway, none of this is really relevant, but I haven't much else to say.**

* * *

Erik watched the doctor reluctantly pack up his supplies, preparing to leave. He knew the man was concerned about Marguerite and suspicious of her husband, but Erik pretended not to notice. She would be in _his _care from now on. Soon they all would be going home—Erik, Marguerite, and Solange—to start over yet again. They would be far from the sickening city, the Gautiers' judgment, Henri's foolish infatuation, the de Chagny family, and the memories—everywhere, the memories. 

Finally alone with Marguerite once more, Erik sat in a chair close to the bedside and watched her. Though she was feverish and in a slight coma, while encased in clean sheets her condition appeared much less grim. Despite the doctor's protest that she was in far too much pain, Erik had gently bathed her while Isabelle stripped the bed's bloody coverings and replaced them with ones more freshly laundered. Soon after, Marguerite had succumbed to unconsciousness. Leaving her that way seemed to be the most merciful choice, as her breathing remained fairly normal and she no longer seemed to be in any imminent danger.

It was time, Erik decided, to speak to Solange at last. When he stood, he was surprised to find himself slightly unsteady on his feet. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths to calm himself, trying to maintain control. Not knowing where everyone else in the house was, he refused to allow himself to become hysterical and succumb to his grief, though both body and soul yearned for catharsis. Again sure of his limbs, he cleared his throat and continued to the door, thinking he would first find Isabelle and tell her to watch out for Marguerite until he could return.

When he stepped out of the room, he found the hallway not as empty as he had thought. As Erik closed the door behind him, Henri stood up from the floor, where he had been waiting, his back against the wall. His wide eyes were as red as if he had not slept in days—or been weeping a good deal—and his brown hair looked windswept from continually running his hands through it. He rose stiffly, having moved very little since bringing Erik to the house, paying no attention to his wrinkled suit as he squared his shoulders and faced his adversary.

"How is she?" he asked.

"Splendid," Erik responded flatly. "Now get out."

Despite his pallor, Henri refused to step away. "I know you're going to take her away soon. I want to speak to her before you do."

"Why?" Erik growled. "That you may attempt to convince her to remain behind with you? Do you truly believe I would let you into that room?"

"You forget, _monsieur_, that I am the one who came and informed you of Marguerite's state in the first place. I had at least hoped you might demonstrate even the slightest bit of gratitude."

"_Gratitude?_" Erik spat back at him. "You dare to suggest that I show _gratitude _to a man who tried to seduce my wife? The only way I would show you gratitude, _monsieur_, is to kill you swiftly, rather than let you suffer, as I'd prefer."

Henri stood his ground. "Boast all you like, but you wouldn't dare try it now. No matter how much she loves you, Marguerite would never forgive you of my murder. She protected me from you once before, if you'll recall. Besides, there are a number of witnesses in this house, including a respected doctor. I might also add that Francois Gautier knows exactly who you are, _Monsieur le Fantôme_."

At this, Erik found himself laughing. "The man disowned his daughter because he thought she had run off with that damned Marcel D'Aubigne without marrying him. Do you think he would let her under his roof if he believed she was married to the Opera Ghost?"

Henri was astonishingly calm as he looked up at Erik. "I see how you might find it difficult to believe, but things have changed a little since then. Believe _me_ when I say that he knows of you. Only a matter of time before Isabelle is informed—and then come the villagers with their torches and pitchforks."

Erik wanted to pick up the insolent man by his waistcoat and hurl him over the banister to the marbled floor below, but he resisted, clenching his fists. Yet he could not leave, for as soon as he moved away, Henri would surely go into the room to see Marguerite, and Erik could not allow that.

"You bastard," he said, unable to suppress the tremor in his voice. "You swaggering, aristocratic son of a bitch—all the same, aren't you? She asked you to come for me. She _begged _for my presence, and that is just eating away at you, isn't it, that you weren't enough for her!"

The color began to return in full force to Henri's face, and the younger man narrowed his eyes at Erik. "It might interest you to know, _monsieur_, that had the child not been so tragically premature, Marguerite would have turned her back on you forever and given up all hope of your return." When Erik frowned, too confused to be angry, Henri said, "She pledged herself to me, fully believing you would never again come for her."

Erik bared his teeth like rabid dog, and his fingers itched for Henri's throat. "Leave this house," he rasped. He felt himself begin to tremble, and damned if he was going to let Henri think that he believed him for a moment. "Go down those stairs, and open the front door. Once you step outside, never set foot on this property again."

The heightened color on Henri's skin once more began to fade. "_Monsieur_, you do not own this house, and it is not up to you to decide when I shall leave it. I must ask you once more—let me speak to her before I depart."

"She's asleep, and you cannot wake her."

For several weighty seconds, Henri and Erik watched each other intently, silently. Not a sound was heard throughout the house, and certainly nothing from Marguerite's room. Henri finally nodded slightly, never shifting his eyes away from Erik's face.

"Very well, _monsieur_, that is all you needed to say. I'll take my leave." He turned away and descended the staircase. As he reached the front door, he stopped and looked up at Erik, who had followed him halfway down the stairs. "I will return. And I _will _speak to her when she is feeling better."

"How do you know I won't hunt you down and kill you in the meantime?" Erik asked. "It would be a pleasure for me, I assure you, and it would save her the trouble of talking to you."

The younger man did not smile as he replied, "If you love her at all, you will let her make that choice herself." Their conversation over, he opened the door and stepped outside, quietly closing it behind him.

* * *

Marguerite was awake when Erik came back into the room after talking to Solange. Contrary to the glassy expression and feverish murmurs of hours before, she was now alert and quite coherent. Isabelle rose from her daughter's bedside and left the room without a word to either of them. One glance at his wife told Erik that Marguerite had a great deal to say. 

"I'm glad to see you're awake," he said, coming to stand over her. "You were completely unresponsive for hours."

"Where is our child?" she asked. If Erik was taken aback by her consciousness, he was utterly appalled at the hardness in her voice. Cold, demanding—she sounded like him.

"Don't worry about Solange," he said, gingerly sitting down on the edge of the mattress, facing Marguerite with his back to the closed door. "I've just spoken with her. She understands you're ill, and as soon as you're well enough, we'll all be going home." He tried to smile, even though Marguerite's expression had not changed to something more approving.

"I was not talking about Solange," she said, keeping the same tone. "I meant our other child, Erik—the one who died before he was born. Our _son_."

Closing his eyes, Erik wished he had a way to erase her memory. He could somehow live the past few months all over again, before everything went to pieces. The voice emerging from his wife's mouth informed him of the pure impossibility of such an opportunity. Forgiveness—reunion—reconciliation would not come so easily. Perhaps he had been too late for them to come at all.

"Your mother," he finally said, "mentioned a family plot. Apparently your parents purchased one a few years back."

Marguerite sighed, slowly closing her eyes in relief. She did not flinch this time when Erik covered her hand with his. Perhaps now her heart would be at peace, and all would be well…

"It is better," said Erik, "that he never know this world."

Her eyes opened, glimmering with such a dark ferocity that Erik withdrew his hand, actually afraid of her. When she spoke, her voice trembled and rasped so that she sounded almost snakelike.

"_You!_ You plant the seed only to rejoice in its death—never thinking, never considering that another misfortunate being could have had a different life than yours! For him I would have been kinder than your mother. You could have fathered a son with the same affliction as yours, given him infinitely greater opportunities, given him _love_. He could have had everything you did not! Yet you sit there and _dare_ to tell me that it is better that he died in the womb. In _my _womb. Do you know, Erik? Do you realize what it must possibly feel like for me to take months planning out a child's entire life, and in a few hours, hold a tiny corpse in my arms and realize that all my dreams came to nothing?"

She shifted uncomfortably, looking away from him as tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. Erik was without words, ashamed. After an extensive stretch of silence, she asked him, "Why did you come back?"

Once again she caught him off guard. "Why…you wished for it. You asked for me, did you not?" He waited for her response.

"And that is all," she murmured. "Obligation. And after it was over? What will you do now, Erik? Will you crawl back into your hole, slither back under your rock and never come out again, unless someone deigns to beg for your presence?"

"No," he said, shaking his head. His alarm and fear of her—and _for _her—had only increased as she continued to speak. "I told you, Marguerite, I am _here_, from now on. You and Solange and I will go home, together, to our house in the country. We can put this all behind us." When she did not say anything, he took a deep breath and added, "You once offered me all forgiveness, Marguerite. I must hold you to that. Please. If not, I…I couldn't survive."

"Why now, Erik?" she asked. "Why did you not come sooner?"

He was ashamed of the words before they were even out of his mouth. "I didn't know you had need of me."

If possible, her scowl deepened. "It was not enough that I was pregnant with your child this entire time? Even when I found you and I said I would forgive, you refused me. Yet you did not realize I would feel a need to have my husband beside me."

Erik narrowed his eyes, growing defensive and knowing she was right. "And you were altogether blameless," he said, his voice thick with churning emotions. He stood and backed away from the bed. "For such a great need, I was quite expendable, wasn't I? I understand _Henri_ was quite accommodating to your needs. So young and handsome, too…charming, I'm sure, with wealth and good breeding. You know, it is astonishing how many daggers a man can take in his back, and still be able to stand, is it not? Of course, for a _monster_, it must be even easier!"

"What was I to expect?" she asked. Her voice had lost its poison, and only sounded faint and feeble. "You wouldn't have come back. What else could I have done?"

Erik stared at her, her sudden loss of vigor taking the wind from his sails.

For a moment, it seemed that Marguerite would yield. She refused to meet his eyes as she murmured, "I can't avoid the truth. I would have been forswearing my husband, the man I vowed to stand beside for all time. It would have deceived Henri, for as much as he may try, I have never loved him, and I never could. There is no denying he's been good to me, but _you_ will own my heart as long as you live."

She lifted her gaze to his, the tears having dried before they had grown heavy enough to fall. "I only wish I could have had yours. All this time, and you have made it perfectly clear that very little has changed. There is an element of humanity, Erik, that you've never possessed."

In half a second, Erik had grasped her meaning. He remembered then why he had fled Paige's house months ago, the chance sighting that had driven him to his cruelest madness. Then the weeks that followed, the emptiness and despair, greater than he had ever known before…

"Marguerite," he said, "that is all over now. I swear, there is no one else in my life who rivals you. It has been so for a long time, but I could not tell you. I could not bear the shame of what I did to you."

Her smile was sad, knowing—the smile of a dying woman who has at last accepted her fate. Seeing it on his wife's face filled Erik with inexplicable panic.

"I accuse you of infidelity, Marguerite," he went on, "but that is what I had planned all along. I fled so that you might turn from me, to someone more deserving. I had hoped…not _him_." He shook his head and pressed onward. "Had I done so earlier, this—tragedy—would have never occurred. But _I _could not bear it. I saw her again—at Mme Giry's funeral, I saw Christine again, and I realized what a dream she really was. Only a dream, a vision, nothing that lasts in the light of day, nothing that is mine to have. When I woke from dreaming, you were always there, and _real_. When I fully realized what I had abandoned, I still stayed. You were better off without me—that is obvious enough, seeing the _child_ I am capable of siring. But I…I am far worse off without you."

All this time, her smile had not changed, and he wondered if she had understood or even listened to what he was saying. While Erik had hoped for a cascade of fresh, joyful tears and open arms, Marguerite bestowed upon him neither. She only stared at him, eyelids drooping, her lips curved upward, almost shrewd. At least, she spoke again.

"How many times will you say so, Erik?" she asked. There was no malice in her voice, no anger, but an eerie peace. "You have lost all feelings for Christine—your muse, your protégé, your goddess, your love for all eternity, in this world and the next—and have realized how real and good _I_ am? This is not the first time you have made such claims, nor, I expect, the last."

"_Mon dieu_," he groaned, coming close again to sink to his knees, looking up at her. "This is the end of it, _à la fin_. I mean every word, with every breath as I speak, and I will do whatever it takes to make you believe me."

"Oh, Erik," she said, placing a tremulous hand on his head. "This must be the same hopelessness that Henri feels about me."

"You are not listening!"

"Erik, I love you. I _forgive_ you. I just don't believe you."

"But I—"

"There is no power on earth great enough to destroy your love for her," Marguerite interrupted, "least of all a woman like me. I'm not trying to be martyr," she said, raising a hand to silence Erik when he opened his mouth to speak again. He wanted to grab her wrists and shake her until she understood, but she was weak and in pain, and it would do neither of them any good.

"I seem to have made myself one unintentionally," she continued. "I knew, all along, you always wanted her instead. You once said I was first in your heart. I always had a trace of doubt it was so, and I've been proven correct again and again. I believe, now, I am fully prepared to live with that. I should have never married you and so divided your loyalties, but we are married, and I wish to remain so."

"But I am trying to tell you that it is different now—I swear to heaven and hell and all that is between!"

From the force of her sigh, it was obvious that Marguerite was losing her patience with Erik, just as he was losing his. "When I see proof, I will believe you. Please leave me alone for now. There are a lot of things I need to think about."

Left with neither armor nor ammunition, Erik did leave the room. When the door closed behind him, he leaned against it, completely numb and wondering what had just happened.

* * *

**A/N: Considering what she's just gone through, Marguerite is making quite a bit of sense, no?**


	53. Hanging on 'Maybe'

**A/N: When I started this chapter, I had no idea it was going to end the way it does. But that's how it worked out. For further information, check out my profile after you finish.  
**

* * *

Henri stormed through the front door and threw down his hat, not caring where it landed before he ascended the staircase. By the time his valet had scurried into the foyer to greet him, the slam of the library door resonated through the house. Another servant emerged and exchanged nervous, confused glances with her co-worker. For years, they had never seen him in such a dark temper. 

The heat in his face almost suffocated him, though it was nothing compared to the violence raging in his mind. He treaded back and forth, forming a path in the carpet, barely able to see or think clearly. He cursed his weakness in the face of his rival, his ridiculous fondness for Marguerite, and his pure helplessness in rectifying the situation.

_I know,_ he told himself, _I _know_ she loves him_._ No matter what I do, or say, or make _her _say, that will never change. Only Heaven knows why, but there it is_.

Telling himself that did not make him feel any better.

"Is that you, darling?" Celine's voice drifted into the room from the other side of the door. Noticing the syrupy tone, he guessed that she had been entertaining company, and his abrupt return had disturbed them. "Are you in there?"

"Yes," he answered. "Go away."

He counted five seconds of silent tension before her reply. "A few friends and I were having tea and conversation. I do hope you won't be so rude as to avoid saying 'good afternoon' to them?"

Was it only afternoon? Henri looked at the clock and. Sure enough, it was nearly 4:30. Each hour he had spent at the Gautiers' house felt like a day in itself. Perhaps it _was_ the afternoon…several days later. He lit a cigar, though he rarely smoked, and ignored Celine. Instead, he stood before his desk, staring out the window and wondering how long it had been since the rain had stopped.

Ten seconds. "Henri, aren't you coming out?"

"No."

Five more seconds. Feminine murmurs, a nervous giggle that was not Celine's, and then the library door opened. He kept his back to the door, his eyes out the window, no longer really focused on what was behind the glass. If he turned around, he knew what he would see: pursed, pink lips, a glistening black mane coiffed just so, and those glistening eyes staring at him, cold and shrewd.

"Where have you been today?"

"At the opera-house," he answered automatically.

"No, you weren't." He could hear the hardened smile in her words. "I went there, after you were called away extraordinarily early this morning. You were _never_ there today, and no one could tell me anything. M Gautier was absent, as well, and when I inquired after his whereabouts, I found out something very interesting. Apparently, his daughter—a pretty young lady, as I understand—was giving birth to a child prematurely. Sad, is it not?"

The cigar was slowly becoming ash in his fingers, but Henri remained frozen. He could not look away from the window, or turn around to face her. He had not prepared for this inevitable moment, nor had he expected to feel such a desire to hurt Celine. By not moving, he hoped to buy himself some time.

"She was married once, I was told," Celine went on, "but her husband abandoned her. What a tragedy to endure. Perhaps the child was meant to comfort her in her sadness, sired by the next man to come along. Or maybe it was the very _reason_ for her husband's departure."

Henri only said, "It is, indeed, a tragedy."

Five seconds. "That is where you were, then."

"Yes."

Her high-pitched laugh jarred him. "And you will not even attempt to deny it! What a _noble_ creature you are."

He heard her soft steps, and sensed her closeness. Gritting his teeth, he turned around to face her. No matter what either of them said or did, her beauty was still breathtaking, and Henri felt his body begin to respond. Sickened, he looked away again, leaning against his desk.

"It's not what you think."

Celine looked up at him, feigning innocence. "What do I think?"

"That I'm the child's father—Marguerite's secret lover."

"Marguerite." Celine pronounced the name slowly, the smile coming back over her mouth. "I remember her name now."

"The child is her husband's," Henri said, his gaze now fixed on the ceiling, deliberately ignoring the woman in front of him. "She loves him, and sent for me that I might bring him to her. She knew where he was the whole time he was gone. I don't know why, but she still loves him—always. I wanted to go away with her after the child was born, but her husband's return changes…everything."

He had no idea what was making him say these things, but the words spilled out as though he had no control over them. There was no stopping it, and Celine's face grew pale, her expression frozen, as he went on.

"He doesn't understand how fortunate he is, and _I_ can't understand why he doesn't see it. Oh, of course I do, he's a demon." Pressing his lips together, he smashed his cigar into the ashtray and stood up straighter. "I suppose I'm a fool to still want her."

"I've always known you to be a fool," Celine spoke up. She sighed wearily. "Now I know where you have been spending so much of your time." Chuckling, she added, "I suspected there was a young lady. I should have guessed how near she was—in every respect."

"You seem to be taking it very well."

"Oh, I suppose it soothes a little of my guilt, if I have any." When he frowned at her, she lifted her eyebrows and said, as though surprised, "Well, you can't expect to be the only man to ever look in my direction, can you?" She came closer until she was nearly pressed against him. Looking up, she said, "But I know my power over you, don't I?"

With a frustrated groan, Henri reached out and pushed her gently out of the way. He strode forward to the door and opened it, gesturing for her to leave. She shrugged and complied, rearranging her face into a smile convincing enough for her friends outside.

* * *

Henri waited days, almost a week, before returning to the Gautiers' house. Though he was concerned that Marguerite might believe he had abandoned her instead, he sensed that she and Erik needed a few days to come to terms with each other. Besides, if Marguerite was still willing to go away with him, a few days would not make much difference. But after those several days, his own curiosity was too strong, and he took the liberty of calling in the late afternoon. 

When he reached the house's front stoop, he had forgotten to be nervous until he knocked and waited. For some reason, he feared that Erik would answer it, but of course it was a maid instead. As she led him up to Marguerite's room, they encountered no one else. The house seemed deserted until she opened the bedroom door. Isabelle, already standing, turned to see who it was.

"Henri," she said, hurrying toward him. "What a surprise." She looked back over her shoulder, and Henri followed her gaze. Marguerite was seated by the window, the back of the chair too high for them to see her.

Isabelle leaned toward Henri, whispering, "She's much better, but she's been rather quiet all day. Erik went out to call on a friend, he said, and I don't know when he'll be back. It would be good for her to see you, so I'll make myself scarce."

He only had time to nod in agreement before Isabelle tiptoed out of the room, beckoning for the maid to follow. He approached Marguerite hesitantly, as though coming too close would inhibit her improving health. She sat at the window, which was open to let in the fresh air. Though it was a warm day, she had an embroidered blanket of dark cloth draped over her lap, giving off the impression of a convalescing queen. The setting sun cast a golden hue over her face that further improved her appearance. When she turned her head and looked at him, away from the light, he saw the gray clouds in her eyes.

"I'm very pleased to see you're feeling better," he said, idly fidgeting with his hat, "Under the circumstances, I thought it might be best that I let you and…your husband…be reunited for a few days." He paused. "I knew you would be safe under your parents' roof. Your father kept me updated at the opera-house."

She smiled at him, but it was a distracted little grin, casually given and immediately forgotten. She glanced at the outside world once more before looking back at him and saying, "I'm glad you've come."

"You are?" He could not keep a little of his jubilation from showing through his voice. "I suppose you might guess what it is that I most want to speak to you about."

She nodded. "You still want me to come away with you." She met his gaze and did not look away. For a moment, his heart pounded fiercely, joyfully, believing this to be a sign of her assent. When she kept looking at him, not speaking or offering even a smile, his pulse slowed, his shoulders drooped, and he knew he was thwarted for the last time.

"Marguerite, please," he said, knowing it was useless. She shook her head.

"My place is with him," she said. "I don't love you, Henri. You have Celine, and I know what you say about her, but she is your wife, lawfully and spiritually so, and you have your own vows to keep. I will always love Erik, and I could never be with you, knowing that."

"I don't care," Henri whispered, hunkering down beside the bed. "I don't care if you love me or not. Whatever you say, I'll believe you, and I'll live with that. Just come with me."

"_No_. I can't let you do what I did. I can't go with you, I can't be with you, when you know I'll always love someone else. I did that myself, and I don't want you to live that way. I can't let you willingly deceive yourself like that."

Henri sighed, frustrated, searching her face for any hint of hesitation. "How can he not love you? How can…" He reached up and brushed her cheek with one finger. "After all this time, how can he fail to see what I have always seen?"

When Marguerite smiled this time, it was with sadness, but it lingered. "He sees it. I know he does love me. But not as much as he loves her. It has always been so. He tried to tell me it had changed, but I know it never can. Perhaps I should not have been foolish enough to marry him, knowing that, but I did, and I made promises—sacred vows. Maybe not in a church, but before God anyway—for good and bad times, in happiness and sadness, both sickness and health."

He did not want to believe what he was hearing. Her words entered his ears, pierced his brain, but he wanted to shut them out. "But don't you want to be _happy?_ Don't you think you deserve at least that?"

She looked at him as though with pity. "The world owes us nothing, Henri, least of all happiness, and nothing is guaranteed. I have certainly caused my share of misery through my own sins. Perhaps Erik _has_ changed. Perhaps he told me the truth the other day, when he said the worst of it was over, and he was going to make it up to me. I can no longer believe his words, so I shall have to wait and observe the actions. Whatever the case, I have my duty and my word to keep. They cannot be contingent on something as fleeting and elusive as _happiness_. I shall do what I can, and trust God with the rest. You don't know him, Henri. You cannot judge—but I must forgive."

He stared at her, still incredulous. "Had I come here already knowing you would say these things to me, I would have thought you were weak and spineless to go crawling back to him." He shook his head. "I would have been wrong. I've never seen a strength like yours."

Marguerite shrugged. "Faith, Henri. I don't know when I got the strength. Only God knows. All I know is that I shall need it for the days ahead."

He looked down at the ring on her hand. "And what do you want those days to hold for you?"

She plucked at the cuff of her dressing-gown. "I want to go back to the country. I hate this city, Henri, as always. I want to breathe clean air again and wash Paris out of my clothes. Erik and I have a house in the country, you know."

"Yes, you've told me." He hesitated before asking, "What of your son?"

She took a moment to answer, looking out at the dusky sky as she murmured, "Peacefully buried—the first grave in our family plot, as it so happens. I suppose we'll be returning on occasion. I hate to think of his little burial place going without flowers next spring."

Henri finally took her hand and gave it a squeeze. For her sake, he had to conceal his rage at Erik, though his heart was breaking at the sight of her, eerily peaceful and gently stubborn, though her eyes were filling with tears. "Will you be all right?"

Meeting his eyes again, she said, "Oh, I'm sure of it. Like I said, Henri—faith. I have nothing if not that."

"Hope," he added. "Love. Both of which I can freely bestow."

"Yes, I know." She managed another smile. "But I have them already."

He stood up. "You _will_ write me if you need of anything. That is a demand, not a request."

"We'll see."

"If I could change your mind today, I would not leave your side. But it is futile—I know you enough to realize that."

With that, Henri left the room quietly. When he stepped into the hallway, he was so startled that he accidentally slammed the door. Erik was standing before him, having apparently eavesdropped. He was smirking at Henri's failure to woo Marguerite, but Henri, filled with anger, was the first to speak.

"Aren't you the fortunate one! You think me a fool, don't you?"

Erik shrugged, unable to hide his delight that Henri's objective was obviously unsuccessful. "I cannot deny such sentiments."

"Yet I seem to be the one who is wise enough to understand the beauty and value of the woman in there." He gestured wildly toward the door to Marguerite's room, not entirely sure what was coming over him. "_You_ run off and leave her in a vulnerable state, pursuing something you should have given up long ago. Then, only when she is near to death, you return in all your dark glory. And for that, everything is supposed to fall into place and go back to the way it was. You can make everything better, can't you, _Erik?_"

He snorted, not realizing he had rendered the Opera Ghost speechless. "_Don Juan Triumphant _indeed. More like Don Quixote, I would think—you see an enemy that is not really there. You even have your Dulcinea, isn't that right? Beautiful, glorious, Christine Daaé, who exists mostly in your imagination. She's a wife and mother now, happily going along as mistress of an estate, hardly the angel of music you consider her. And for _her_, for something that is not yours, that you can never have, that doesn't even _exist_, you are perfectly willing to throw away what you _do_ have—a woman who doesn't hesitate to cast away future happiness to remain by your side."

He again pointed at the heavy door between Marguerite and the two of them. "She is _yours_, Erik. She has always been, and God help her, she always will be. She is determined to keep her promise to you. I have tried everything within my capacity as a gentleman to convince her to leave you and this wretched life of hers behind, to go with me, where she _and_ Solange will be nurtured, loved, and guarded from _you_." He paused and cocked his head. "That sounds rather familiar, doesn't it?"

"You—" Erik began threateningly, only to be further interrupted.

"Yet she has refused me, on several occasions, once driven to say yes in desperation, only to change her mind when face-to-face with you—the damned love of her life. I only wish you had shown her the same faithfulness, for she deserves nothing less." He held up one hand in a gesture of mock surrender. "I would dearly love to challenge you to a duel, or to simply beat you senseless. Unfortunately, I know what you are capable of, and I know what I am capable of, and I am not so fond of those odds. But if I hear of any further cruelty done to her at your hand, I will gladly take on such a suicide mission."

Without giving Erik another chance to speak, Henri Laroche pushed past him to the staircase, quickly descending it and exiting through the front door. Erik watched him leave, stunned, his head in a whirl.

* * *

He had not been able to use a single argument, a single excuse, when confronted with Henri's barrage. It would have been useless, for he knew the younger man was right. He could only turn over and over in his head what Henri had just shouted at him. With no one left standing there to argue against, Erik had to admit all of it to himself. There was nothing else to say. 

Though he had planned to enter the room and interrogate Marguerite about her conversation with Henri, his hand hesitated on the doorknob before releasing it. He knew what held him back—_shame_, an all too familiar sensation, and justly felt this night. Stepping back from the door, he decided to leave Marguerite alone for a while, to mull things over in her head before being interrupted.

Erik himself walked a few paces down the corridor to the adjoining spare room that the Gautiers had given him to use while Marguerite remained under their roof. It did not matter, as Erik hardly slept, except to doze in the chair beside her bed, but it was a nice gesture. Entering the room, he again felt the unsteadiness overpower him until he could barely walk. Staggering across the floor, he sat at the edge of the neglected bed, hating himself.

It was all such a mess, everything, and he was at the center, the catalyst, the fault.

What had made him think he could better the situation? He had caused it, after all, and now his son was dead, his wife was ill and melancholy, and his daughter, too young to understand, sensed something was amiss. How had it gone this far? Yet things would have been this way even if Erik hadn't come back to them. If he had only realized…

_I should have realized already, _he thought. _I should not have been so foolish as to shirk all obligations because I thought it would better things_._ Ha! Better for whom? Even Henri was tormented by false hope, because I practically threw Marguerite in his path, and then accused her of infidelity_. _She never even did anything_…

Yet how could he make it up to her? He had already told her so many times that he valued her above Christine, only to prove his words false again and again. How could he make her believe that he meant what he said this time, that he was willing to start over, to be there for her in a way he never was before?

_I can't_. _I can't convince her_.

She would have to find out for herself. What if it was too late?

Sitting there, wrapped in thought and the darkness of rapidly approaching nightfall, Erik lost all track of time. Hunched over with his eyes closed and his brain overworked, his ears did not register the sound of the door opening and closing. He did not hear the slow shuffle of feet upon the carpet, or see the figure who inched painfully closer. At last, he opened his eyes against the darkness, and jerked his head up.

Marguerite was standing before him, wrapped tightly in both a blanket and her dressing-gown. "What are you doing?" she asked. "Henri left hours ago, and my mother didn't know you'd come back. I was getting worried."

He looked up at her, not even certain she was real. Perhaps it was only a vision. "You should…be in bed," he said. "You shouldn't be walking around and draining your strength."

She must have noticed how his voice was choked, for she whispered, "Erik…have you been crying? What is it?"

He could not take it any longer, this generosity and concern. He reached out and grasped her hand—probably too tightly, but if he lost his grip, he feared she would slip away from him forever. He pressed the back of her hand to his unmasked cheek, savoring the feel of her skin.

"I have failed you," he finally managed to say. "You, always loyal and steady—how could I have failed you so severely?"

"I don't know." After several seconds, it was all she could say.

"He was right," Erik went on. "He was right about everything. I hadn't a word to say in my own defense, for I knew it was all true." He scoffed. "I don't suppose you know what I'm—"

"I heard every word," Marguerite interrupted. "And he _was _right. I'm not perfect, either, Erik, but I can't deny what you've done."

"I know." Erik loosened his hold on her hand, but she did not pull away.

"Erik," she said, this time the one to grip his hand tightly, "this—_us_—is worth saving. Love is always worth saving, but only if we _try_—if we decide every day to love each other, no matter what happens."

"I _have_ to try," he said. "I have nothing without you, you know that just as well as I." He rose from the chair and faced her. Though he still towered over her, he felt humbled and undeserving, as though declaring his love for the first time.

"Thank you for coming back," she said.

He cupped her face. "I've needed you, too. You've no idea…" As he looked steadily into her eyes, even in the darkness he sensed that she did not fully trust him yet. He no longer expected it. There was so much damage to be repaired, but someday…

"Erik," she murmured, unsmiling as she reached up to brush the strands of hair away from his brow.

"Yes?"

"Let's go home."

* * *

**The End**

**A/N: See author's profile**

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